


Free When I'm With You

by WincestielFTTFWin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, BAMF Sam, Big Brother Dean, Canonical Character Death, Caring Castiel, Dean Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Whump, Slave Dean, Slave Sam, Slavery, Wincest - Freeform, Wincestiel - Freeform, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WincestielFTTFWin/pseuds/WincestielFTTFWin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam is six months old, thanks to a deal gone wrong, he and Dean are claimed as slaves by Azazel and Alastair. The brothers live in hell together for sixteen years, until Garrison soldiers storm Azazel and Alastair's mansion and one particular blue-eyed man claims them for his own. Sam and Dean never thought they needed anyone else to survive, but as the brothers begin to heal both physically and emotionally, they come to feel maybe Castiel isn't so expendable after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Dirty Dealings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: please note this is, in fact, an AU. In this chapter, Mary and John are portrayed in a way I don't perceive the canonical characters acting. 
> 
> This chapter is just a prologue setting up the plot. After this point, the rest of the work will follow the Winchester brothers and Castiel, split between their time together once Cas rescues them and flashbacks of Sam and Dean's time spent with Azazel and Alastair

**16 BC (Before Castiel)**

Mary set the roast on the table, scowling at the blackened, crispy edges. She never could seem to figure out this whole playing house, cooking thing. But for John, she’d keep trying—until she got it right or burned the house down by mistake.

The front door creaking open and shut again had her peeling off her oven mitts and gliding into the living room.

“John, sweetie,” she called. “Your timing is perfect, as always. I just pulled dinner out of the oven. Any longer and it would’ve—John? What’s wrong?”

Mary froze, watching wide-eyed as her husband lowered himself into his easy chair, one hand covering his face.

“John?’ Mary prodded again.

John sighed and brought his hand down, scraping against his scruff of a beard in the process.

“Tonight,” he began. “Didn’t go well.”

Mary sat on the sofa across from John, at the very edge. She had to tell her lungs to keep breathing.

“How not well?”

John looked up in her direction, but wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Another half a million worth of not well,” he said.

“Fuck, John, that’s serious money,” Mary said, leaping to her feet without meaning to. “I would’ve thought you were smarter than getting in that deep, what with this losing streak you’ve had going for you lately.

“Sometimes you have to be willing to lose money to make money, Mary,” John said. “You knew that was the deal when you married me. Knew what I was.”

“Yes, John,” Mary said, her jaws clenched together. “But that was before we had two boys to worry about. The glamorous gambling life is one thing if it’s just us who might starve to death, but Dean and Sammy—”

“And that’s not all,” John said, eyes trained on the carpet like he hadn’t heard Mary at all. “These men I owe the money to—”

John trailed off, biting his lip. Mary felt something cold and heavy settle in her stomach. Something dead.

“John?”

“I, uh, my credit had all run out with Zachariah. I had to—I had to get a loan from another source. Y’know, someone I didn’t already owe money to.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Mary asked, proud in some part of her mind that she managed to sound so calm.

“The men I owe the money to,” John admitted, wincing. “It’s Azazel and Alastair.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mary hissed. “Why would you _ever_ —”

The tattoo of feet on the stairs killed the rest of her words before they left her mouth. Dean appeared on the landing wearing his rocket ship footie pajamas.

“Dean, sweetie, why aren’t you in bed?” Mary asked, trying to get the mom-tone back in her voice.

“It’s Sammy,” Dean said. “He was havin’ a nightmare.”

“Sammy’s fine, sweetie,” Mary sighed. “Why don’t you go back to—”

A sharp cry rang out from the baby monitor on the coffee table, the little red lights beneath the speaker all lighting up.

“Damn,” Mary muttered under her breath. She turned back to Dean. “I’ll be right up and look in on Sammy, okay, Dean?”

Dean nodded and raced back up the stairs, probably for the nursery. He’d barely left Sammy’s side since Mary and the baby got back from the hospital about six months ago. Sometimes Mary thought it was a little eerie, the way Dean always seemed to know when Sam was upset, even before Sam himself did. She shook her head and stepped toward the stairs, looking back over her shoulder at John.

“We are finishing this conversation when I’m done with the boys,” she said. “And John? How long do we have?”

“One week,” John said. “One week to pay them back.”

Mary nodded and trudged up the stairs. One week. They’d figure something out.

SPN

Mary clutched her coat a little tighter around her throat. It was plenty warm in Azazel’s office, but she still felt chilled in his presence. Besides that, she preferred having as many layers on as possible with Alastair leering at her like that from where he sat on the corner of Azazel’s antique desk.

“Little Mary Winchester,” Alastair crooned in that nasal voice of his. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I want my husband,” Mary said, meeting Alastair’s eyes and glowering.

“Well then, by all means go back home and have him,” Azazel said, chuckling behind his desk.

Mary turned her glare on him.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“True,” Azazel said, tenting his fingers and propping his chin on their tips. “John’s a marked man. Alastair and I thought we were being generous when we gave him a week to dig up the seven-fifty grand he owes us.”

“That’s right,” Alastair agreed.

“Seven-fifty?” Mary echoed, brow furrowing. “John said he owed you half a million.”

“Plus interest, sweet cheeks,” Azazel said, his yellow eyes flashing as he grinned. “But it’s really a moot point by now, isn’t it? John hasn’t got that kind of cash. Much as we’d like to make an exception for you, honey, business is business. And that means—”

Alastair made a gun with his fingers, brought it to his temple, and made a soft “boom”-ing sound.

Mary felt her lip curl in revulsion.

“You’re sick,” she growled.

Azazel only laughed.

“Better people than you have said so, sweetness. Now, why are you _really_ here?”

Mary jutted her chin out, looking down her nose at Azazel.

“I want to make a deal with you,” she said.

Alastair wheezed in that death-rattle laugh of his.

“A deal?” he said. “What could you off—”

“No, no,” Azazel said, holding up a long-fingered hand. “I want to hear her out. What did you have in mind, Mary?”

“Me,” Mary said, waiting for more laughter. When it didn’t come, she shifted in her weight and continued. “You know when John met me, I was a dancer.”

“A popular one too, if I remember,” Azazel agreed, his eyes latched on Mary’s face, obviously eager for her to continue.

“What you might not know,” Mary said, her hands fidgeting against each other, clasping fingers and releasing them again. “Is that I made some extra money sometimes. In the back. Y’know, with some of the Hunter Club’s more trusted members.”

“You were a whore,” Alastair said. “We get it. Go on.”

“Yeah,” Mary agreed, face heating with rage. “I was a whore. The question is: do you want me to be again?”

“That’s quite the question, Mary,” Azazel said, eyeing her carefully. “I must say, I’m surprised.”

“Is it a deal, then?” Mary pressed. “I know you two have connections in a number of different—enterprises. I’m sure you could find a use for me. What I’m offering is my services, for as long as you like until John’s debt is paid off. And of course, for your word that _no harm_ will come to him.”

“Interesting,” Azazel said, lowering his hands to the desk and pressing his palms against the hard wood. “Let me ask you: Does John know you’re here?”

“No!” Mary said, taking a step back. “Of course not. I—I don’t want him to know anything about this.”

“Then in that case, I accept,” Azazel said, speaking again when Alastair opened his mouth to intervene. “On one condition: I have no reason to trust you, Mary. What’s to stop you and that cute little family of yours from cutting and running?”

“I-I—” Mary was at a loss. She stared helplessly at the two men.

Azazel and Alastair seemed to share a look. When they turned back to her, both men were grinning.

“I’m afraid we’re going to need some sort of—security,” Azazel said.

Mary took a deep breath to steady herself.

“All right,” she agreed. “What did you have in mind?”

“Your sons,” Azazel said.

“What?” Mary shouted, hands balling into fists. “You leave my boys out of this, you twisted fucks!”

“Temper, temper!” Alastair scolded, wagging a finger at her.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” Azazel said. “It’s just a precaution—just a little something to sweeten the pot and make sure you hold up your end of the deal. Now, do we have a bargain?”

Mary bit her lip and waited.

“Look, it’s this or all bets are off and we take John out tomorrow in punishment for you wasting our time,” Azazel snapped. “We don’t have all day for you to make up your mind.”

“All right,” Mary blurted, blinking back tears. “It’s a deal. It’s a deal, okay?”

“Excellent,” Azazel said, grinning. “You may go. We know how to find you when we’re ready. Oh, and Mary? It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Mary ducked out of the office and closed the door behind her, the laughter of the two men following her down the hall. She tried to tell herself she hadn’t made the worst mistake of her life. She’d just saved her husband, after all. And no harm would come to her boys. It’s not like she wasn’t going to hold up her end of the deal, after all

SPN

Mary opened the front door and let her coat fall over the arm of the couch. She rubbed circles deep into her temples. Only her third night working for Azazel, Alastair, and company, and she already felt dead. She was sore, and her body was tired, and she was already full of that same self-loathing she’d had back in the days when she spent her evenings in the back room of the Hunters’ Club. Back before she’d met John, and he promised to take her away from all that.

Mary fought off a bitter laugh and hauled herself up the stairs.

“John?” she called.

The upstairs was mostly silent, except for the low buzz of the TV in her and John’s bedroom. She was about to head for the master bedroom at the end of the hall, when she heard something in the nursery. Just a creak of a floorboard. John must have gone in to check on Sammy.

Mary turned into the nursery, blinking at her husband’s back while he bent over Sam’s crib.

“John?” Mary whispered.

“Shhh,” a voice hissed. The man in the nursery turned around, a glint of yellow eyes catching the light of the street lamps outside. “You’ll wake the baby.”

“You!” Mary growled, prowling into the nursery. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here? In my home?”

“Coming to check on my investment,” Azazel said, scratching under Sam’s chin. “He’s beautiful. All in all, Mary, I think I’d prefer him to you.”

“Well that’s too fucking bad,” Mary hissed, keeping her voice low and praying whatever happened next, Dean would sleep through it. “Now you get the fuck out of here, or so h—”

Azazel twisted around, his arm striking out lighting fast, a flash off silver blade in his hand glinting in the moonlight.

Mary realized she couldn’t get another word out before she registered the pain. But when the pain did finally hit, it was crippling. Mary dropped to her knees, clawing at her throat. When she moved her hands away, she saw the crimson blood that covered them, black in the dim lighting.

She tried to scream, but all that came out was a low gurgle.

She tasted blood in her mouth now too. God, it was everywhere.

She tried to glare at Azazel, but she couldn’t seem to see him anymore. All there was were shadows.

“Shhh,” Azazel’s voice cut through the fog. “Just let it go, Mary. I promise I’ll take good care of Sammy. And Alastair seems quite taken with your Dean.”

 _Please, God, no_ , Mary screamed in her mind, before she realized that no one was listening, no one would save her family. And as the last glimmer of the streetlight through the window vanished, Mary knew it was all her fault. And that hurt the worst.


	2. Delivered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen years after Azazel comes for them, Sam ad Dean's prison is stormed by soldiers wearing Garrison uniforms.

**Delivered**

“Dean,” Sammy’s voice cut through the haze that was his usual half-sleep. “Hey, Dean.”

Dean sprang upright, one hand protectively gripping Sam’s hipbone. He scanned the dark cell, ready to pounce as far as the chain attached to his ankle cuff would let him at the first sign of danger.

“What is it, Sammy?” Dean whispered, once he was convinced they were still alone in their little dungeon.

“I hear something—outside. Someone’s coming.”

Dean strained to hear what Sam did, but it was no use. Sammy had freakish bat hearing—or maybe it was just that Azazel had actually been _training_ him instead of breaking him like Alastair did Dean. But Dean had no doubts that if Sam heard something, someone was out there. And he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

For about five seconds, his heart beat faster in his chest. His lips quirked into a small smile. Maybe someone was coming who could give Alastair and Azazel some trouble. But then that thought had Dean’s heart sinking like a stone again.

Last time anyone came here to cause trouble, it had been Dad. But Dean couldn’t afford to think about that right now. Couldn’t bear to remember what happened to John. Not if Sammy was in any danger.

“What do we do, Dean?” Sam asked, and even in the dark, Dean could see the white of his eyes flashing and the glint of his front teeth as they worried his bottom lip.

Do? What the hell _could_ they do locked up like they were?

“C’mere, Sammy,” Dean said after a moment’s silence.

He held his arms out to Sam, who snuggled against Dean’s chest, curling up into a ball to try to fit on his big brother’s lap as easily as he used to. Dean ran a hand up and down Sammy’s back, feeling the knobs of his spine through his shirt. Sam’s breathing evened out a little as Dean kept up his reassuring touches.

“We’re going to wait this out, baby boy,” Dean whispered into Sam’s hair, pressing his lips against the satiny mop in a tender kiss. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

Sam gave a small whimper and trembled in Dean’s arms. Dean shh-ed him and rubbed a little more vigorously at his back. Sam would never betray his fear to anyone else. Dean reveled in the fact that he was the only one Sam trusted enough to be vulnerable like that with. Gloated in the fact that he was the one who got to comfort Sammy.

Sam wasn’t the only one who could hear the sounds after another minute. Dean heard them too. Heavy footsteps—and lots of them—around the building. One of the dogs started to bark, and then the other four joined in. Soon, the night was crowded with the sharp barks and low growls of the dogs. When he heard them, Dean had to fight off tremors of his own. He had too many memories of the dogs to be unaffected when they started in like that. But Sam needed him, so Dean kept it together.

When the banging of a battering ram on the main door started up, Dean wrapped his arms a little tighter and hummed a half-remembered lullaby Mom used to sing. And when the guns started going off, thunderbolts and whip-cracks above them, Dean rocked Sam back and forth, singing out loud and making up the words he didn’t remember.

Dean held Sam for what felt like hours. Gunfire and shouts raged overhead, and Sam lay with his face pressed into Dean’s shoulder, his breath warm against Dean’s skin. When silence fell, Dean wasn’t sure whether he should feel relieved or terrified. The sound of the battering ram on the cell door solved the dilemma for him.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered, pressing against his brother’s shoulders so Sam unfolded himself and slid off Dean’s lap. “Get behind me and don’t move.”

“Dean,” Sam squeaked, as the door finally gave way. “What—”

“Shh, Sam,” Dean said, crouching before Sam who knelt behind him. “I’ve got you.”

The footsteps pounded down that tight, circular stairwell leading into the dungeon, and five people wearing deep navy Garrison uniforms and Kevlar appeared, the beams of their flashlights bathing the cell in blinding white light. They seemed to fill the small dungeon.

Dean glared at the intruders, jaw tilted out, daring them to try and lay a finger on Sam. Most likely he’d be gunned down before he managed to land a decent blow, but any of them tried to hurt his brother, he’d sure as hell try. These fuckers might not be worse than Azazel, but at least Dean knew what he was capable of. With Garrison hotheads, there were no guarantees.

One of the men, the team leader, most likely, based on his position at the front of the group, forming the point of a goose-like V-formation, took a measured step forward.

Dean snarled up at the man, puffing out his chest to look as threatening as possible while chained to a ring in the floor. He met the man’s ice blue eyes and felt all his certainty waver. There was something in that gaze he wasn’t sure how to read.

Perhaps his confusion showed on his face, because a moment later the man slung his rifle over his shoulder by its strap and raised his hands.

“My name is Castiel,” he said, his voice deeper, more gravelly than his delicate facial structure suggested. “And I’m not going to hurt you.”

SPN

Castiel had every intention of finding himself trapped in a nightmare as soon as he led his men past the threshold of Alastair and Azazel’s (no longer so) safe house. He expected the fight, expected there to be losses (truthfully, he considered them blessed to only have lost one man with three more wounded). He expected the drugs and the weapons and the paper trails leading back to crimes so horrific he wouldn’t be able to sleep for weeks.

What he hadn’t expected when Samandriel came to him with the news that they’d found a locked basement with a reinforced door was to discover hell itself. But he had.

It took all of ten seconds’ observation to determine there was no threat in the dank, underground room that had probably been a root cellar at one point. There was no furniture there, just cold cement and dirt. And that’s when Castiel allowed his flashlight beam to focus on the two figures huddled on the floor. One sat crouched, like a cat about to spring, guarding the second boy, who was smaller and sat with his head ducked, as though trying to make himself invisible.

The one man Castiel could see made his flesh crawl. The young man (or perhaps still a boy himself) was naked from the waist up. The flesh of his muscled torso was mottled with scars, some long and thin like those left behind by knives or whips. Others were large and splotchy, burns perhaps. The man’s hair was filthy, caked with something Castiel at first assumed to be mud, but after a moment’s more contemplation, suspected was more likely blood. But for all his damage, the man’s face was breathtaking. Castiel could appreciate the lips and bone structure even in a quick sweep of his features, but where his gaze stuck was the eyes. The man had these intense, furious eyes.

Seeing the hate in that glare, Castiel wondered for the briefest of moments whether these boys might be associates of Alastair and Azazel, or maybe even rival gang members. But when the man on the ground shifted a little to further hide the smaller boy from view, Castiel shoved that line of thinking aside. These men were terrified, and having all these guns waving around wasn’t going to help matters any.

Castiel put his weapon behind his back and decided to break protocol. What he should’ve done was demand the two identify themselves and their intention. At the very least, he should have identified himself as a member of the Garrison, and announced that Alastair and Azazel had been taken into custody, and their assets seized. What he did instead, however, was raise his hands in as calming a gesture as he could muster. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it wasn’t very good. It had been a long time since he’d had any reason to be calming.

“I’m Castiel,” he said. “And I’m not here to hurt you.”

The man crouched on the ground lifted an eyebrow. His “Oh, yeah?” came through loud and clear without even saying a word.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Castiel said, motioning Samandriel and Hannah forward to guide the boys.

His two subordinates stowed their rifles and flanked the men on the ground, moving quickly, but making their intentions clear.

“Don’t you touch him,” the man on the ground spat out, shoving Samandriel back when he angled behind him to help the smaller boy up.

Samandriel rocked back on the balls of his booted feet, but he righted himself quickly, looking back at Castiel with obvious surprise in his wide blue eyes.

Castiel only nodded. Samandriel was well-meaning, but he sometimes lacked the confidence to carry out an order without having it repeated at least three times. As Samandriel moved in again to grab the boy, Hannah turned back to Castiel and the other two waiting with their guns still trained on the strange men. Just in case.

“This one’s chained to the floor, Sir,” Hannah said.

Castiel resisted the urge to swear under his breath. Whatever these boys were to Alastair and Azazel, they’d obviously been treated like animals.

Before Castiel could respond to that bit of news, Samandriel had the smaller boy on his feet and was ushering him back towards the stairs. The older boy, the one chained to the floor, seemed to go completely rabid at that.

He growled and snarled, lunging at Samandriel, only to have the chain at his ankle drag him back.

“I said don’t _touch him_!” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the walls of the tiny room. “I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

Most likely acting on the instinct that had been trained into her, Hannah gripped her rifle and drew it back, seconds away from smashing the butt into the man’s head.

The smaller man, who’d thus far been nothing but pliant, seemed aware of the motion even though his back was to Hannah. He swirled around, breaking Samandriel’s (who had obviously been too trusting again. Castiel would need to have a talk with him about relaxing his guard) grip easily enough.

“Dean!” his voice rang out in the room too, but clipped and precise, unlike the first man’s ravings. “Stop.”

Immediately the chained man quited, eyes on his smaller companion, but still somehow glowering at the room at large. Castiel decided it was time to intervene again.

He stepped between the chained man and the other one, glancing down at Hannah where she knelt by an iron ring driven into the floor, before turning his attention back to the mysterious prisoner.

“Dean, is it?” Castiel asked.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Dean said, enough acid in his “sir” to have eaten through steel in three seconds flat.

“We’re going to take you and your friend out of this cell, Dean. But we need to get that chain off to make that happen. Do you know where the key is kept?”

“My Mast—Alastair,” Dean said, licking his lips. “Alastair always keeps the key on him.”

Castiel didn’t let his sigh move past his mind. Alastair and Azazel were halfway to the Garrison’s cells by now.

“We’re going to have to shoot it off,” Castiel decided, moving towards Dean.

To his surprise, Dean’s eyes bugged out for a moment before he settled his face back into a mask of neutral loathing. Castiel thought this was a perfectly normal course of action, but then, judging by the marks on Dean’s body, what was normal for Castiel might indeed seem strange to him.

“Do what you want,” Dean said, jaw clenched.

Castiel shrugged aside his reaction and set the muzzle of his rifle against the third link of chain from the cuff. He fired, and the chain writhed for an instant like a snake in pain before settling. Dean flinched at the gunshot, but then stared down at his foot, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Come on,” Castiel said, offering Dean his hand without thinking. “Let’s get you out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Thanks again for reading! I was really touched by the reception of the last chapter!


	3. New Situations

**AD (After Deliverance)**

Sam knelt on the Persian rug in the living room, Dean folded up ungracefully at his side. Since being pulled from the dungeon, they’d done nothing but wait on the first floor. The blue-eyed soldier from the cell and a red-haired woman who hadn’t been present for their “liberation” stood guard. As if either Sam with his scrawny frame or Dean in his condition posed a threat.

The rest of the Garrison soldiers swarmed the house like maggots, evaluating the cost of everything in the estate. They were probably already choosing what they wanted to lay claim to. Garrison soldiers didn’t earn a salary. Their wages came from their conquests—any time they stepped in to establish order, whomever they deemed unfit for society then forfeited all material possessions to the Garrison.

It was a neat system, Sam supposed. He might even have appreciated it—if he and his older brother hadn’t just been labeled assets.

“How you doin,’ Sammy?” Dean whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. Sure, they were both about to be passed off as some new Garrison soldier’s bitches, but Dean was only worried about _him_. And the truth was, Sam was fine. Now that he had to be, he was. Sure, he’d been a wreck down in the cells before, but now that there was an audience (anyone around besides Dean), he was calm. He knelt perfectly still, taking even breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. His face adopted the placid, vacant look he’d adopted around Azazel. He was probably the calmest guy in the room.

“I’m fine, Dean. Are you?”

Dean was about to answer when the blue-eyed soldier’s gaze intensified. Dean shut his jaw and turned away from Sam, pretending to be unaware of his presence. He obviously didn’t trust Blue Eyes over there. Sam had _known_ the guy meant he’d shoot off the chain down in the dungeon. But Dean had obviously thought the guy meant his foot, and even when that didn’t happen, Sam knew his big brother well enough to know that Dean wouldn’t stop waiting for this guy to lob off an appendage or two now that he’d (in Dean’s mind) offered to do just that.

The sound of someone trudging up the front porch shifted the energy in the room. It became tenser and less celebratory and chaotic.

A few seconds later, a new man appeared on the scene. He was large and black, with a stare that seemed to analyze the room around him down to the smallest molecule. He also wasn’t wearing the battle uniform of the other soldiers, but dress blues. Sam figured he was high ranking, and judging by the rigid attention pose Blue Eyes struck when the new guy’s gaze rested on him, Sam was onto something.

“Castiel,” the man said, his voice deep and rich.

“Uriel,” Blue Eyes said, ducking his head in a small bow.

“Anna,” Uriel said, turning on the redhead.

“Uriel,” she echoed, giving her own small bow.

“We have you two to thank for coordinating this attack,” Uriel said. “Castiel in particular. I know you were instrumental in planning the strategy.”

Blue Eyes dipped his head again.

“Azazel and Alastair—what a pair to have behind bars,” Uriel continued. “You’ve done this world a great service. You have also taken out two of the wealthiest criminals in the country. Your fellow soldiers and I thank you. Due to your role in the victory, you two should be the first too choose your compensation. Castiel? What do you want from the spoils?”

Sam might have been crazy, but he’d swear Blue Eyes’ gaze flicked over to him and Dean before turning back to the commander.

“I think Anna should be granted the Manor and grounds, Uriel,” he said.

“Indeed?” Uriel said, raising an eyebrow. “And what do you want, Castiel?”

“The slaves,” Castiel said in a rush. “I want Alastair and Azazel’s slaves.”

Sam felt every tendril of hope he hadn’t even realized he’d allowed to build in the past few hours leave his body. All the air in his lungs was punched out at the same time. Yes, he and Dean would be kept together. And that alone should be enough. But if this Castiel guy had chosen two half-starved slave boys as compensation when there was a whole Estate on the menu, he had to be an even sicker fuck than Alastair. And that was saying a lot.

SPN

Castiel could only hope he hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

Yes, in that moment back at Alastair and Azazel’s, Castiel could think of nothing he wanted more than to see these two men safe. There something about the eyes on that angry one—something about the way he fought for his brother—that had Castiel hooked. And he didn’t need to know anything more about them than the condition he found them in to know they deserved a break.

Castiel didn’t even mind giving Hannah the mansion and grounds. He had an estate of his own from a previous mission. Maybe not quite as lavish as Alastair and Azazel’s, but much more to Castiel’s liking in its simplicity, truth be told.

No, he wasn’t having second thoughts about that. It was only when he led Dean and the younger boy (Dean’s lover? Brother? Friend?) through the marble colonnade that was Castiel’s entrance hall that he wondered if perhaps he’d taken on more than he could manage.

So far, both men had been impeccably behaved. They’d waited patiently (on their knees) while the other soldiers divvied up the remains of Alastair and Azazel’s estate, until Uriel dismissed the platoon. They’d let themselves be crammed into the jeeps with the rest of the men for the ride back to Headquarters. In the parking lot there after filling out some quick paperwork, when Castiel led them to his silver Porsche, other than Dean’s soft scoff, they hadn’t said a word or offered any resistance, but simply slid into the back. And when Castiel pulled up the winding drive through his own grounds to his Neoclassical mansion, awkwardly cleared his throat and announced, “This is it. This is your new home,” all he’d gotten in response were blank stares.

Guiding them through the house itself, however, was a whole different matter. The slighter of the two men walked with his shoulders back and his head high, a stoic expression on his face that Castiel suspected was misleading in its calm. Dean, on the other hand, let his eyes dart from corner to corner, taking in the whole room with a keen study that tipped Castiel off to the fact that he was planning something. Most likely to rob Castiel blind and escape in the middle of the night.

Castiel led the way to his favorite room, the library. Only here did he see the first flicker of emotion from the younger of the two. He blinked a little faster, and swallowed so big Castiel could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he let his eyes scan the rows of shelves spanning the room. Castiel didn’t stop until he reached the empty hearth at the far wall. He lowered himself into one of the leather chairs arranged in a ring before the empty fireplace, waiting to see what the boys would do.

Dean followed Castiel and sank to his knees across from him without so much as drawing a breath. The younger man paused for a moment, his eyes darting from Dean to the chair and then back again before he too knelt on the carpet.

Castiel nodded his approval. He wasn’t truly a supporter of slavery, and ultimately hoped to free these two. But in the meantime, if they had a healthy respect for him, it might make the coming days easier.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, and thought he saw the younger man’s jaw relax for the briefest moments before tensing again. “My name is Castiel, and I’m a captain in the Garrison. May I call you Dean?”

He turned to the green eyed man, who dropped his eyes (that had been boring through Castiel’s skull a moment ago) to the carpet.

“You can call me anything you like. Master.”

“What I’d like is to call you your name,” Castiel said. “Is it truly Dean?”

Dean gave a jerking nod.

Castiel smiled at him, aware his expressions were never very—well, expressive. But he was trying. He turned his attention to the younger man.

“And your name?”

“I’m Sam, Master,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft, but not weak. More—boyish and tender. Castiel didn’t buy it.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Sam. But neither of you has to call me ‘Master,’ understood?”

Dean nodded again, and Sam murmured, “Yes, sir.”

Sir was fine. Sir was what his subordinates in the Garrison called him. Castiel could live with “sir.”

Castiel settled back into his chair a little deeper and fought the urge to sigh. Now that the preliminaries were over, what next? What was he actually going to _do_ with two slaves? Pamela would never give him a moment’s peace if he assigned them any of her house-keeping tasks. She was vehement about earning her wages. Oh well. He could worry about that tomorrow. Fortunately, there were more immediate issues to be addressed.

“I’ll show you to the room where you’ll be staying tonight,” Castiel said. “Until I have good reason to trust you, I’m going to lock you in it overnight. Do you accept this decision?”

Twin whispers of “yes, sir.”

This time, Castiel gave himself over to the urge to sigh.

“This transition is going to go much easier if we communicate openly with each other. My wish is that you both come to appreciate living in my house. I don’t expect you to believe that right now, given the way it seems you’ve been treated,” Castiel paused, wondering whether it was wise or not to say this next part, but ultimately deciding if he wasn’t lying through his teeth about open communication, he’d better. “I promise never to beat you or cause you bodily harm as punishment for your actions. If you do ever give me cause to fear for my safety or your own, the worst I will do is immobilize you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, his eyes still on the carpet.

After waiting another beat for an answer from Dean that didn’t come, Castiel tilted his head and studied him. Dean’s body seemed locked in its position on the floor, rigid. His jaws were clenched so tightly together, he seemed to be grimacing, and he was staring at the floor like he wished he could set it on fire with his mind.

“Dean?” Castiel said, concerned that perhaps he was concussed or not thinking clearly. Castiel wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn he’d received his fair share of head trauma over the course of his stay with Alastair and Azazel.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, and from his tone, Castiel inferred he was answering his first question.

“Good,” he said. “Lastly, I want you to feel safe to ask any questions you’d like. I understand this is a huge upheaval for you both, and I imagine it must be confusing. If I don’t want to answer something, I won’t, but I will _not_ be angry at you for asking.”

This got Dean to lift his head up, his left eyebrow quirked in an obvious “Oh, yeah?”

“All right,” he said, a swagger in his voice that Castiel hadn’t heard since the cell. “What’d’you want from us? I mean, if you’re willing to give up that swanky place, I figure it must be something pretty specific, or pretty sick.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, his face morphing into something that wasn’t quite a scowl but clearly betrayed his annoyance at his companion.

“It’s all right,” Castiel said. “I promised I wouldn’t be angry, Sam, and I’m not.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, slipping back into demure again.

Castiel didn’t like how easily he made the change, but rather than dwell on it, he turned back to Dean.

“I don’t ‘want’ anything from you both. I didn’t begin this mission with the intent of gaining two slaves. We’ll figure your position in the household out over time, once I see where your strengths lie.”

“Oh,” Dean said, looking surprised for the briefest of moments before that arrogant smirk was back on. “Well, so y’know, Sammy here’s shit at sucking cock.”

Castiel blinked. If he were a more expressive man, he was pretty sure his eyes might’ve bulged out of his skull. Literally.

“Dean!” Sam gasped, face whipping over to gape at him.

“S’true, Sammy. Sorry to hurt your feelings,” Dean said before turning back to Cas. “He’s shit at most skills in bed, really. I know, I know, pretty to look at, so you wouldn’t think it. He’s just not very coordinated, y’know. Same goes for fighting. Really, if you want _anything_ like that done, take my word for it, I’m your best bet. Sam here is safest locked behind a desk.”

“That is _not_ true,” Sam said, looking genuinely distraught for the first time. “It’s not, I swear. None of it. Dean’s just—he just thinks he’s protecting me.”

Sam’s eyes widened.

“But—h-he’s not trying to lie to you, I swear,” he said, knee-walking a few paces towards Castiel.

“Sammy,” Dean growled, glaring. “Shut. Up.”

“Please,” Sam said, staring up at Castiel with obvious desperation. “He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just—he’s my big brother. He’s just trying to look out for me. Please. I’ll do anything you like. I’ll—I’ll suck your dick. You can take my ass. You can beat the shit out of me and I’ll take it. I promise.”

“Sam, _stop_ talking,” Dean ground out through gritted teeth. “I _will_ punch you if you don’t shut up. I swear I will.”

Castiel fought the bought of nausea rising up inside him. Dear God, what had these two boys been through?

“It’s fine,” he said, weakly. Though it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. He just wasn’t sure what to say to get it to stop.

“All right, okay,” Dean said, fidgeting.

Castiel had seen enough distractions in his life to realize Dean was trying to bring the attention away from Sam and back to him.

“I’m sorry, all right?” Dean said. “Just—punish me and let’s move on. I’m over this drama.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, all the energy draining from his body. The adrenaline rush of the battle and finding the brothers (at least he knew that now. Whatever more disturbing revelations he’d just had, at least he could put a name on that) had officially worn off by now. “I said I wasn’t going to hurt you, and I keep my word. Now, I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too. Why don’t we end there for the night, and I’ll show you to your room?”

Castiel pushed himself out of his chair, and without turning to see if the brothers were following, left the library and started down the hall to the corridor with the couple of guest-rooms Pamela always kept ready for company. These boys were clearly going to keep him on his toes—Castiel only hoped the locks in this place would be enough to hold them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are awesome! Thanks so much to everyone who's subscribed, left kudos, bookmarked, or commented!


	4. First Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head's up for some serious child abuse this chapter. See end notes for more specific warnings.

**16 BC (Before Castiel)**

The room was cold where the yellow eyed man left Dean after taking him from his bed at home. The room was white and looked like a big bathroom, tile everywhere. A flickering light made everything too bright, making Dean’s eyes sting even more than his tears did. And there was a weird silver table in the middle of the floor. Dean wondered if this was a hospital—it looked a bit like the room where the doctors did surgeries in the TV shows his Mom sometimes let him watch with her.

But thinking of his parents only made Dean cry harder. He shivered in the cold and with his crying and he felt stupid and frustrated and small. He kicked the sharp edge of the metal table leg, but all he did was stub his toe through his sneaker, and that just made him feel even more pathetic.

When the door to the room finally opened, Dean was huddled in a ball in the corner. He looked up to see a tall, skinny man walk into the room. He reminded Dean a little of the Scarecrow from _The Wizard of Oz_. But he was scarier. Dean didn’t know why, but something in the way this man was looking at him made Dean curl up even tighter. He wanted to disappear. Anything to avoid this stranger’s eyes on him.

“Dean, Dean, the crying machine,” the man said, stepping further into the room and shaking his head.

Dean didn’t like the way he sounded. It was mean, teasing. His voice was all stuffy too, like Dad with a bad cold. Only not like Dad at all.

“Where’s Sammy?” Dean demanded, trying to sound brave as he glared up at the stranger.

“Don’t you worry about Sammy,” the stranger said, pulling a metal chair away from the wall and sitting in it backwards to keep staring at Dean.

Dean raised his chin a little bit, but he didn’t uncurl his arms from around his knees.

“No,” the stranger continued. “You should be worrying about your Mommy and Daddy. See, they’re both dead. Azazel and I—we killed them.”

“ _No_!” Dean shouted, jumping to his feet.

He tucked his hands into tight fists. His arms shook at his sides, but it wasn’t with the cold anymore.

“That’s not _true_!” Dean screamed, stamping his foot. “You’re lying!”

The stranger smiled at Dean, curling his lips back to show of yellowing teeth. Dean took a step backwards.

“Whatever I say is true,” the man said. “Whether it’s a lie or not. Y’see, you belong to me now, Dean. You’re mine. I can do whatever I want with you, and you’re going to obey me. No. Matter. What.”

“No,” Dean said, but the word was too quiet when it slid into the room, and Dean knew it. He swallowed and tried again. “I don’t have to do what you say. And I won’t listen to you. Not ‘til—not ‘til you say it wasn’t true. What you said about my Mom and Dad.”

The stranger stood up so fast Dean didn’t even know how he’d done it. He kicked the chair aside and took a step toward Dean. Dean let out a yelp and took a step back, but the stranger was faster than him. He reached out and grabbed Dean by the hair, holding him in place. Dean’s tears started up again now. The man’s grip in his hair hurt. He wondered if the guy was going to scalp him like the Indians did the Cowboys in some of the stories Dad told him. It sure felt like all the skin on his head was being peeled off.

Dean batted at the strangers hand, but that just made the grip tighten.

“You’d better stop fighting me, Dean. It’ll be easier for you if you do.”

Whimpering, Dean went limp. He didn’t want to, but it _hurt_. If it made the angry man stop, he’d quit fighting. For now.

“Good,” the man said, letting go of Dean’s hair and stroking it with a long hand instead. “Good boy, Dean.”

Dean jerked away without even meaning to, and this time, the man got ahold of his arm. He set the chair back up on its legs with his other hand and dragged Dean over toward the metal table. At first, Dean thought the man was going to make him sit on it, but instead, he pushed Dean onto his knees on the floor. The tile was cold through Dean’s pajama bottoms, and it was hard and hurt his knees. But the angry man held him there with one hand on his shoulder as he sat in the chair, hovering over Dean.

“Now,” the man said. “We need to get a few things straight. My name is Alastair, but you’ll be calling me ‘Master.’ Now, why don’t we practice? Say, ‘Yes, Master.’”

Dean clamped his jaws shut and shook his head.

A second later, a jolt of pain shocked Dean. It covered half his face. Dean only registered the sound afterward. Alastair had _hit_ him. Dean had never been hit before. His eyes watered even faster, and Dean wanted to scream. He wished he would stop crying like a baby. He wished this man would leave him alone. He wished his Mom or Dad would come for him and tell this man to—

“Say it,” Alastair growled.

Again, Dean shook his head. He didn’t think he could say anything right now, even if he wanted to. But he _didn’t_ want to do what Alastair said, because Alastair was a liar, and he’d hit Dean.

This time, Alastair reached for something set out on the table. He grabbed Dean’s cheeks with one hand and squeezed until Dean’s mouth opened. Dean’s heart pounded, and he thrashed in Alastair’s hold. The man was too strong, though. He reached into Dean’s mouth with something cold and metal, not bothered by Dean’s tongue that tried to push the thing away. The metal thing gripped one of Dean’s back teeth, and Alastair pulled.

Dean screamed, actually screamed, louder than Sammy when he was hungry, even.

Alastair pulled the metal pliers out of Dean’s mouth, a bloody tooth clutched in them.

“Would you look at that?” Alastair said. “Good thing these’ll grow back. I can pull ‘em all out without doing any lasting damage.”

Dean sobbed, Alastair’s hand on his shoulder the only think keeping him upright now. There was something bitter and thick in his mouth. Blood. His own blood. Dean half-whimpered, half-whispered what he knew Alastair wanted to hear.

“What’s that?” Alastair said, shaking him.

“Y-yes, M-master,” Dean stammered. “Master, Master, Master.”

Alastair let Dean go and chuckled. Dean slumped to the floor, trembling at Alastair’s feet.

“Good boy,” Alastair said again.

Dean pressed his eyes shut tight and swallowed more blood. He heard the scraping of the chair when Alastair moved it back. Then the man’s footsteps as he walked away. The last thing Dean heard was the sound of the door closing as his Master left him there, to cry and bleed alone.

SPN

  **AD**

Dean didn’t think he would, but he slept through the night on their new Master’s comfortable bed. When he’d first seen the room Master was giving them, well, at first Dean was shocked. This was _not_ what he’d been expecting—a normal, free man’s room with furniture and everything. But then again, acquiring Sammy and Dean had been a last minute thing. Maybe Master just didn’t have appropriate slave quarters. Once Dean had logicked through that, his second surprise was the bed. One bed. For him and Sam.

Of course, this is exactly what they would’ve wanted anyway. But it was the implication behind it. Master must’ve known Dean was fucking Sam. So what was this, then? A test? Was Master watching them? Would they be punished if they did anything together?

For a while, Dean had just stood there and stared at the bed, until Sam told him to stop being ridiculous, enjoy it while it lasts, and hold him already. And really, that had been all the invitation Dean had needed to curl himself around his little brother and sleep like the dead.

When he woke up, the sun was shining through one of the long windows lining the wall. Sam was already awake, and when Dean opened his eyes, his little brother was watching him with that small, teasing, Sammy smile on his face.

“G’morning,” Sam said, reaching out to trace Dean’s cheekbone with his fingertips.

“Morning,” Dean said with a cough, pulling Sam’s fingers to his lips for a quick kiss before sitting up and wincing.

Sam winced too, and Dean felt like an idiot for making him worry.

“Ribs still hurt?” Sam asked, forehead wrinkling.

“Nah,” Dean said, grinning. “Alastair’s gonna have to try harder than that if he wants me to feel it. Or, y’know, would’ve. Huh.”

Sam nodded, making no move toward sitting upright.

“‘Huh’ is right,” he said. “I still can’t believe last night was really a dream. Alastair and Azazel. They’re—gone, Dean. Out of our lives.”

Sam turned to Dean, a grin on his face, the expression more unguarded than Dean remembered seeing, well, ever.

“We’re free,” Sam said.

“Hold on, Sammy,” Dean said, rubbing his shoulder. “We are not ‘free,’ okay? We’ve got a new Master. And one with some seriously freaky tastes if his recent life choices are anything to go by.”

Sam only looked away and shrugged.

“Maybe,” he said.

Dean was about to ask what the hell he meant by “Maybe” when there was a knock on the door. Dean and Sam both perked up, Dean wondering if he should be kneeling when their new Master made his appearance. Why else would he announce his entrance like that? There wasn’t time to move, though, before the door opened. Instead of their strange, blue-eyed Master, however, a small woman with dark hair peered in.

“Room service,” she said, smirking.

Dean gaped at her, turning to Sam. Fortunately, Sam looked just as baffled as he felt.

The door opened all the way, and the woman backed into the room, wheeling an actual food trolley-cart thing like Dean had heard about fancy hotels having into the room.

She stopped the cart several paces over the threshold and stood there. Sam and Dean just stared.

“Well, this isn’t breakfast in bed,” the woman said. “Get your lazy asses over here.”

Dean growled at the back of his throat and stayed put, but Sam cautiously slid out of bed and crept over to the cart. He moved silent on his feet on the carpet, noiseless until he was at the cart and cautiously picked up a piece of toast from a plate stacked high.

The woman flinched, twisting her head toward Sam.

“Damn, you’re a quiet one,” she said. “Hell of a feat to sneak up on _me_.”

Sam cocked his head and looked at her. Dean was so distracted thinking about the hours Azazel had spent training Sam to be silent and lethal, it took him a moment to catch up to the implications of what the woman was saying. Dean followed Sam’s lead and studied her a little closer. There was something off in the way she was looking at Sam, even now. Like she wasn’t even seeing him.

“You’re—blind,” Dean said.

The woman laughed.

“Damn, I hope you’re cute enough to make up for your lack of observation-skills,” she said.

Dean felt heat in his cheeks, and he stared down at his lap. Everyone knew Sam was the smart one—the observant one. Dean was just a pretty face for Alastair to fuck. And occasionally a grunt to help him in his work.

“Don’t talk shit about my brother,” Sam said, his voice so cold Dean would’ve been scared if he didn’t know for a fact Sam hadn’t killed anyone. Yet.

The woman pressed her lips together for a moment.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m Pamela. I work for Castiel.”

Sam kept glaring at her, but he took a bite of toast before stepping away from the cart, out of Pamela’s reach. Just in case. Dean was proud of him.

“What do you do for him?” Dean asked, still not willing to risk taking any of the food. It could still turn out to be a setup, after all. He’d rather choose not to eat then try to, only to have it taken away in some sick head-game, thank you very much.

“Mostly just keep this place up and running,” Pamela said, leaning against the edge of the tray casually. “It’s big enough it keeps me busy.”

“And you’re okay with it?” Sam asked, apparently willing to, if not forgive Pamela, at least pump her for information. “Working for Castiel?”

Pamela shrugged.

“I’d be lying if I said we didn’t get off to a rocky start,” she said, gesturing at her eyes, that Dean now wondered how he could’ve missed were sightless.

“He did that to you?” Dean asked.

Pamela nodded.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered.

“That’s what I said,” Pamela said with another laugh.

“Masters shouldn’t be allowed to maim slaves for life,” Sam said, glancing over at Dean.

He looked away right after, but Dean noticed his eyes resting on him.

“Wait a minute,” Pamela said. “Castiel isn’t my ‘master.’ As far as I know, you two are the only slaves he’s ever had. No, Castiel blinded me in an accident—I was working for some unsavory characters and got into some trouble with the Garrison. Castiel felt so bad about it, he offered me this job right after. I thought it would be a good idea to stay out of trouble for a while, especially without my eyesight, so I thought: why not? That was five years ago, and so far, I haven’t found a reason to leave yet.”

Pamela straightened up.

“Well, I should really get back to work. Castiel is back at Garrison headquarters taking care of some things. He’s asked me to keep you locked up while he’s gone. Y’know, since I can’t very well keep an eye on you.”

Dean frowned at her, and she sighed.

“That was a joke! Lighten up a little. I’ll leave the tray. Feel free to eat as much as you want. If Castiel isn’t back by noon, I’ll bring you boys lunch. Just try to stay out of trouble until then,” Pamela said, crossing back to the door and disappearing out into the hall. Dean listened as she locked the door behind her and the sound of her footsteps faded away.

Dean looked at Sam. He wondered what the hell kind of situation they were in right now. What was this Castiel’s deal, anyway?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: This chapter starts off with a flashback to four year old Dean meeting Alastair for the first time. Over the course of the scene, Alastair intimidates and slaps Dean, and yanks out one of his (baby) teeth.


	5. Observation

"Castiel,” Anna called from the front doors as Castiel trudged through the parking lot outside Headquarters, making his way back to his Porsche.

Castiel paused and waited for Anna to catch up. She jogged toward him, smiling.

“Anna,” Castiel said with a nod as he started moving again, Anna falling into step beside him.

“How’d the debriefing go?” Anna asked.

Castiel gave her a small smile. Anna knew just as well as he did that if the Garrison loved anything more than justice, it was bureaucracy. Everything involved paperwork, briefing and debriefing with them. Castiel sometimes felt his job was 95 per cent relaying and receiving information, and only 5 per cent actual fighting (or “peace keeping” as Commander Uriel called it).

“Fine,” Castiel said.

Anna smiled fondly and shook her head at his monosyllabic response, but then her face clouded and she bit her lip. Castiel tilted his head, waiting for her to say whatever she’d obviously meant to when she chased him down.

“How did everything go with your slaves last night?” she asked.

Castiel’s step faltered for a moment, but then he straightened his back a little and kept marching.

“Fine,” he said again, this time knowing it sounded clipped.

Anna sighed.

“It’s not an easy thing, adopting that much responsibility,” she said. “These are two _lives_ we’re talking about, Castiel. And really, you have no idea what they’ve been through, or what Azazel and Alastair did to them.”

“I’m very much aware of that, Anna,” Castiel said, stopping in his tracks once they reached his car.

He met Anna’s eyes, frowning at her.

“I just—I know this is new for you,” Anna said, placing a hand on Castiel’s arm.

He looked down at the hand, but didn’t shake it off.

“I was just going to suggest, it being Azazel and Alastair and all, you might want to get them checked out,” Anna said.

Castiel bristled, jerking his shoulder so Anna’s arm fell away.

“What are you suggesting?” he growled. “That I’m going to fuck them? But that I should make sure they aren’t _tainted_ first?”

“No,” Anna said, taking a step back, her eyes widening. “God, no! I just—from the looks of that one with the green eyes, they’ve been through hell. I just meant, check them out for broken bones and concussions, Castiel. I swear.”

Castiel sighed, wilting.

“I apologize,” he said. “It’s just—Sam and Dean seemed to expect I was going to rape them last night. I suppose I’m a bit on edge at the moment.”

Castiel couldn’t help remembering Dean’s face when he enumerated his brother’s lack of skills in bed. The desperation in Sam’s eyes when he offered to suck Castiel off, offered his body to Castiel in exchange for Dean’s safety. His hand curled into a fist, and he tightened his grip so his fingernails dug into his skin. He didn’t want to imagine what their lives must’ve been like to jump to those conclusions.

“Then,” Anna said, drawing Castiel out of his thoughts. “Maybe you should have them tested for that too.”

She reached into her pocket and drew out a small business card.

“This doctor is a little unorthodox, but he’s willing to look at slaves, which is more than can be said for most men in the profession,” she said, handing the card to Castiel.

He took it and looked down at the type-writer lettering on the card: “Frank Devereaux, M.D. House calls available upon request.”

“Thank you, Anna,” Castiel said, putting the card into his own pocket and deciding not to ask Anna how she’d learned about Dr. Devereaux. He knew it was a good idea to have someone look at Sam and Dean. He just couldn’t help fearing what Frank Devereaux would find out.

SPN

 Pamela opened the door before Castiel climbed the final step onto the porch.

“You know it’s a terrible idea to leave two terrified men alone and unoccupied for hours, right?” she said, stepping aside to let Castiel in.

“Hello to you, too, Pamela,” Castiel said, his voice a bit growlier than he meant it to sound.

Pamela just snorted.

“I haven’t been in to take their breakfast trays away, but I’m hoping that older one decided it was okay to eat something. He sure as hell wasn’t going to with me in the room,” Pamela said, taking Castiel’s trench coat as he shrugged it off and hanging it on a coat-tree by the door.

“Ill go look in on them,” Castiel said. “And I’ll take care of their things. Thank you, Pamela. I didn’t intend to make more work for you.”

Pamela rolled her eyes.

“Please do. Scrubbing floors can only keep me busy so many hours of the day, you know.”

Castiel smiled at her, trusting she could sense the gesture even if she couldn’t see it. He made his way toward the guest bedroom where he’d left the brothers, hoping Pamela would attribute his speed to anxiousness at her warning and not simply eagerness to see the young men again.

Castiel unlocked and opened the door without knocking, and as he stepped inside, both men hurried to kneel, knees hitting the floor, heads bowed.

“Welcome home, Sir,” Sam said, his voice laced with something soft and honeyed.

The sound made Castiel uneasy. There was definitely some attempted seduction going on, there.

While Sam knelt gracefully at the foot of the bed, an opened book from the shelf sunk into the wall lying beside him, Dean’s muscles were rigid where he was positioned near a locked window. His tense body was in total contrast to Sam’s lithe, almost easy submission.

“Sam, Dean,” Castiel greeted, feeling suddenly awkward, at a loss. Once again, he had no clue what to do now that he was alone in a room with these two abused strangers. Fortunately, as his eyes continued to study their still bodies, a rather obvious option presented itself.

Sam and Dean still wore the clothes they’d been found in. While Sam had on a simple outfit of jeans and a t-shirt, Dean was clad only in tattered, draw-string pants. Both men were filthy from sleeping in that cell, and Dean still had dried blood matted in his hair.

“Come with me,” Castiel said, turning and leading the way toward a bathroom three doors down.

Once again, the men followed, Sam directly on his heels and Dean a few paces behind. When they filed into the bathroom, Castiel stood in the doorway, ready to block their exit if necessary. The brothers gawked at the room. Castiel wasn’t insensitive to his own wealth; he knew it was an impressive space. The bathroom was tiled in sand-hued stone on the floor and halfway up the walls, where it shifted to a mosaic of rich green and blue glass. The usual toilet and sink stood along one wall, while a shower stall encased in glass stood in the far corner. The true focus of the room, however, was the sunken tub filling about a third of the space. Two steps led up and into it, and a wide ledge wrapped around the outside, holding votive candles and incense. The tub itself was easily large enough for three people to sit on it’s jacuzzi-style bench, and (Castiel knew) it was studded with jets every six inches at back and calf level.

“I’d like you to draw a bath and clean yourselves,” Castiel said. “I’ll have Pamela bring you some of my clothes to change into when you’re finished. They may be a bit small, but they should do until we’ve had time to acquire more suitable options. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam murmured.

Dean simply nodded, but Castiel supposed he’d have to live with that.

He hovered just long enough to ensure his orders were going to be followed out. Sam turned to the bath and began running the water so hot steam lifted from the spout. Castiel was about to turn and leave when Dean untied his pants and let them pool to the floor. Stunned, Castiel stood rooted to the spot. Dean’s eyes were trained on the tile, like he was choosing not to acknowledge Castiel’s presence. Castiel tried not to stare, tried to move, tried to leave, but he was frozen by the sight. It wasn’t just Dean’s chest and back that were covered with scars. His legs were as well, every inch of his flesh except for his face, neck, and penis (Castiel couldn’t help but notice) mottled with marks. And the sickening thing was, the longer he stared, the more the lines and burns made sense to Castiel. There was a pattern there, some sick, twisted pattern he could see even if he couldn’t decipher it.

And as much as Castiel wished he could unsee it, he had a feeling he’d be seeing nothing but those marks for weeks, every time he closed his eyes.

When Dean turned his back to the door to climb into the tub, Castiel stalked into the room without consciously telling his body to do so. His legs were on autopilot; his arms had ideas of their own. His brain was doing its best to shut down.

Castiel grabbed Dean by the shoulder and held him in place, the man’s left foot on the bottom step of the tub. Dean whimpered, but held perfectly still, Sam rigid a few feet away.

Distantly, Castiel registered he’d put himself in danger by touching Dean from behind and leaving himself so open to attack from Sam. But he couldn’t care about that, couldn’t seem to make the thought take root in his brain. Because all he could focus on was the cruel black ink tattooed into Dean’s skin in an arc above the crack of his ass where “Alastair’s” was permanently stamped into Dean’s flesh.

Castiel growled, a low, guttural sound that vented some of his fury. How _could_ he? How could Alastair degrade and dehumanize someone like that? Claim their body as his own in such an intimate place? Castiel had always known Alastair was a sick fuck, but here, right here in front of him, was the proof of how true that was.

A high-pitched whining sound brought Castiel back to the present. Dean. Dean was _whimpering_ and trembling before him. And Castiel was gripping him too hard—holding so tight to his shoulder the skin around his fingers had gone white.

Castiel let go and took a step back, hissing like he’d burned himself.

Dean crumpled to his knees again, boneless this time instead of rigid. He was still making sounds, but not that dreadful whimper anymore. These were words. Castiel strained to hear, finally making out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” falling from Dean’s lips on repeat.

Sam cast an unsure glance at Castiel before dropping to his own knees on the floor beside his brother, draping an arm over his shoulder and resting his head in the crook of Dean’s neck.

“Why are you sorry, Dean?” Castiel asked, his voice somehow not cracking on the words.

“For being such a worthless, used up whore,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Sam said, his voice sounding just as pained as Castiel felt. 

“S’true, Sammy,” Dean said. He craned his head to look back over his shoulder at Castiel. “Whatever you thought you were getting when you asked for us, I know I’m not it.”

Castiel stepped back over to Dean, feeling his heart break at the anguish in those eyes. He rested a hand in Dean’s hair. Dean flinched at first, but then went statue-still under Castiel’s touch. Aware that even this touch was an invasion of Dean’s privacy, but unable to stop himself, Castiel gently stroked Dean’s scalp. He thought back to his first instincts on seeing Sam and Dean in their cell—wanting to rescue two traumatized and battered men. Despite what Dean thought, Castiel was certain he’d gotten exactly what he expected when he claimed them.

After a few heartbeats more of charged silence, Castiel glanced back at the mostly-full bathtub.

“Take your time getting washed up,” Castiel said, edging away from the brothers. “And I think you should know, I’m going to bring in a doctor to examine you both before the week is up.”

Castiel crossed the threshold back into the hallway, watching as Sam wrapped himself completely around his older brother, whispering something into his ear. After another moment, Dean seemed to relax into his brother’s hold, and Castiel closed the door on the scene.

 


	6. On Bread Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, All! Sorry about the delay in posting this chapter, but I want to let you know that even if I sometimes disappear for a couple of weeks (or more) at a time, this fic WILL be finished. I'm just really enjoying writing it, and I'm encouraged by all you who seem to enjoy reading it. Thanks so much!

**12 BC**

Sam knelt by Azazel’s feet on a comfy cushion. He fought the urge to fidget or sigh. Azazel liked him to be calm and quiet. But it was just so boring! Azazel was doing “important paperwork,” so Sam had been sitting here for an hour already with nothing but the scratch of Azazel’s pen on paper or his Master’s hand stroking his hair every so often to distract him.

“You’re doing very well, Sam,” Azazel said, petting Sam’s head again.

Sam looked up into his Master’s yellow eyes. He smiled shyly up at him, and Azazel beamed.

Sam sat up a little straighter, something big and proud filling up his chest. He knew Dean didn’t like it that he cared what Master said. But Sam couldn’t help it. It just felt _good_ to know he could do something right. He just wished Alastair would be nicer to Dean, maybe then Dean would understand how Sam felt.

“Patience is important to get anywhere in life,” Azazel said. “So it’s just as well you learn it early.”

His hand in Sam’s hair grew a little heavier, his fingers tugging a little. Sam bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to show he didn’t like it. Azazel didn’t like crybabies.

“Oh, the plans I have for you, Sammy,” Azazel said.

But then, Sam did fidget. He shuffled on his knees a little, pulling his head away. Only Dean was allowed to call Sam that. Sam didn’t like it when Azazel did, and he didn’t want Azazel touching him right now. Azazel only gripped his hair harder, though.

“Don’t fight me, Sam,” Azazel said, his voice stern enough Sam stopped moving. “Do you need another dose?”

Sam pressed his eyes shut and shook his head, not even caring that it hurt his scalp.

“No,” he said. “Please, no, Master. I’ll be good.”

“Uh-oh,” Azazel said, chuckling. “I think someone said no to me. That definitely means it’s time.”

Sam felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. He blinked so they ran down his cheeks, and he stared up at Master.

“Please,” he whimpered, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

If Master wanted to give him another dose, that’s what he’d do. Nothing Sam said or did now would make and difference. So he let himself cry quietly while Azazel pulled a silver knife from the top drawer of his desk, and drew the blade across a mostly-healed cut above his own wrist.

Sam trembled a little at the sight of the blood, but he didn’t resist when Azazel’s left hand cupped the back of Sam’s head and positioned his lips above the cut.

“Go on, Sam,” Azazel said. “Drink.”

Sam whimpered again, and bit is bottom lip, but Azazel pushed his face forward another inch, so the warm blood smeared all over Sam’s mouth anyway. Obediently, Sam pressed his lips around the cut in his Master’s arm and sucked, pulling the gross, bitter blood into his mouth. He tried to swallow it quick enough he wouldn’t taste it too much, but the blood pooled in his mouth and collected on his tongue however fast he choked it down.

“Good,” Azazel crooned above him. “Good boy, Sam. Just keep drinking. There you go.”

His hand on the back of Sam’s head started stroking again. Sam shivered but tried to ignore the feeling of his Master’s fingers massaging his scalp now.

“You’ve got my blood in you, Sam,” Azazel said. “You belong to me, only to me.”

Sam wanted to shake his head. He wanted to scream “No! That’s not true.” But he didn’t do either of these things. He just kept drinking his Master’s blood, taking snuffly breaths through a runny nose as he kept crying.

“You’re mine,” Azazel said. “Not your father’s, not your dead mothers, not _Dean’s_.”

Sam sucked even harder. He didn’t want to hear this. It wasn’t true. It _wasn’t_! Dean always promised it wasn’t true.

“All mine, Sammy. Blood of my blood. Good boy.”

Finally, Azazel tugged Sam’s hair twice. Sam pulled his head away from his Master’s arm, and licked his lips.

Azazel was grinning at him again, obvious pride on his face. But it didn’t make Sam feel good right now. Now, it only made Sam feel sick. He settled back into his cushion while Azazel went back to his papers, and Sam fought not to throw up blood all over his Master’s shoes.

~          *          ~

**AD**

Sam sat in an arm chair in the library, with a book propped open in his crossed legs. Dean knelt on the floor right next to him, close enough his shoulder kept bumping Sam’s knee. Master had told them they were allowed to use the furniture, but Dean still wasn’t trusting him. Sam knew Dean well enough to know he was expecting some sort of trap. Either that, or maybe he was still embarrassed about the bathroom thing yesterday. Dean hated breaking down like that, so he’d probably be trying to prove himself for a while now.

Master sat in a chair across from Sam absorbed in his own book and paying Sam and Dean no attention. Which also meant Dean could be reading right now if he’d just let himself. That was another part of his self-imposed punishment. Sam had handed him a book off the shelf earlier—Vonnegut, he knew how much Dean liked him from the books Sam would sneak to him at Azazel and Alastair’s. But Dean wouldn’t even let himself relax that much. The book sat unopened before him, his eyes trained on the cover he’d still yet to touch.

Sam rolled his eyes, but repositioned himself in his chair so he could rest a hand on the back of Dean’s neck. Dean tensed at first and looked up at Castiel, but when he realized their Master wasn’t looking, he started to relax into the touch. Sam smiled and let his thumb trace gentle circles at the base of Dean’s skull.

After a minute or two, Sam went back to his reading. It was Dickens. He’d always been partial to the older classics. There was something so comfortingly distant about them. Whenever he tried to explain his preferences to Dean, though, his brother just called him a nerd and kissed him.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Sam tensed, feeling Dean do the same beneath his hand. Pamela appeared in the doorway. She cleared her throat pointedly when Castiel didn’t acknowledge her.

Castiel flinched, blinked, and said, “Hello, Pamela.”

“The Harvelles are in the kitchen,” Pamela said. “I told them we still hadn’t straightened out the next order, so Ellen asked to speak with you.”

“Of course,” Castiel said, sliding a pressed flower between the pages of his book to mark his place and sliding to his feet. “Sam, Dean, would you follow me, please?”

“Yes, sir,” the brothers said at the same time, both standing.

Sam was a little annoyed by the fact that Castiel still either locked them in a room or wouldn’t let them out of his sight. It was pretty inconvenient, actually. He wondered what exactly Castiel thought they were going to do—bolt? They weren’t suicidal, thank you very much.

But he and Dean followed three paces behind Castiel and Pamela, walking side by side. Every so often, Dean’s fingers would brush against Sam’s wrist, a small smile tugging at his lips. Sam loved seeing that expression on his face. He wanted to encourage it, get his hands on Dean and really give him something to smile about. That was off the table at the moment, though.

Castiel led them down a hallway Sam hadn’t followed yet, and into a giant kitchen. The floors were tiled in white and light blues, and cabinets and counters ran along long walls, with a marble-topped island in the center of the room. There were two large ovens and an industrial sized dishwasher. Sam was pretty sure the refrigerator was bigger than the solitary cell Alastair used to lock Dean into sometimes.

Two strange women stood near a door at the far side of the room. One was middle-aged, and the other was probably a little younger than Sam. Both were blondes, though the older woman’s hair was a little darker. The older woman scowled at Castiel when the group entered the kitchen, but the younger one smiled at Sam and Dean.

“Castiel Seraph, what do you mean taking on two slaves like some Simon Legree?” the middle-aged woman demanded, her voice whip-sharp.

Sam noticed Dean tense beside him. Dean hated being talked about like he wasn’t there. Sam sometimes thought it was better than being addressed directly, though.

“Ellen,” Castiel said. “My intentions were honorable, I assure you. The boys just needed a place to stay.”

“Uh huh,” the woman (Ellen, Sam guessed) said. “So they’re just—free to go whenever they want, then?”

Castiel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the floor. Was he nervous? Their Master, the man who invaded Azazel and Alastair’s, was nervous around this woman?

“Not—exactly,” Castiel choked out.

“That’s what I thought,” Ellen said, scowl deepening.

The young woman beside her shook her head.

“Mom,” she said. “Better they end up with Castiel than Uriel. I think it’s on record you’re not happy about it, but we work for Castiel, remember? Not the other way around.”

Ellen pressed her lips together, but didn’t say any more on the subject. Castiel shot the young woman what Sam interpreted to be a grateful smile, and Pamela seemed to be holding back laughter where she stood leaning back against one of the counters.

“Now, why don’t you introduce us to your new guests?” the young woman said, turning dark brown eyes back on Sam and Dean and smiling at them again.

Sam felt his lips curving up a little in response. She didn’t seem so bad, even if her mother was scary enough to terrify Castiel.

“Right,” Castiel said. He turned back to Sam and Dean.

“This is Ellen Harvelle, and her daughter, Jo,” Castiel said. “They own a local bar and grill, and are gracious enough to cook for me. They bring me all my meals pre-prepared once a week, so all Pamela has to do is heat them up for us.”

Right, Sam realized. That explained what Pamela was talking about in the library. Castiel would need to order more food now, to feed the brothers. Which meant Castiel would have to pay more, and Ellen and Jo would have to cook more. Sam’s eyes trailed to the floor, and he drew his shoulders in a little. He felt bad to be putting Ellen and Jo out, but this just meant Castiel would be more eager to make the brothers earn their keep now. Sam just hoped he wasn’t as bad as Azazel and Alastair. He didn’t seem to be yet, but sometimes, it was so hard to tell.

“Ellen, Jo,” Castiel said, and while Sam didn’t raise his head, he did let his eyes track Castiel’s movements as he faced the Harvelles again. “This is Sam and Dean. They’re going to be staying with me for a while.”

“Hi, Sam, Dean,” Jo said, waving at them.

“Boys,” Ellen said, giving them a curt nod. Her eyes were warm, though.

Sam dipped his head again. Out of the corner of his eye, he say Dean debating whether or not to kneel.

“You know, Ellen,” Castiel said. “Why don’t you and Jo discuss next week’s food order with Sam and Dean? Just bring an extra serving of whatever they want for me. Pamela and I have something else to attend to right now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Sam blinked and stared at Castiel. Master was watching him and Dean with a strange sort of scrutiny. Dean stood stoic under the gaze, but Sam fought the urge to move, willing all of his muscles to remain stone still. Dean was right. They couldn’t afford to let Castiel see them feel anything at all—even uncomfortable. Even surprised.

“Sounds good to me,” Ellen said with a shrug.

“Excellent,” Castiel said, nodding to Ellen and Jo before turning and leaving the kitchen, a confused looking Pamela in his wake.

Sam turned to Dean who, in their Master’s absence, looked as uncertain as Sam felt being left in a room with two strangers.

Ellen only smiled at them, though.

“All right, boys,” she said. “You look like two young me who could really pack some food away. Why don’t you tell me what you like, and I’ll make sure to keep you well stocked. Let’s make Castiel pay out the nose, shall we?”

Sam was about to argue that that wasn’t necessary, that it would only make trouble for them later, when to his surprise, Dean relaxed beside him and grinned.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he drawled, bumping Sam’s shoulder with his own. “What do you say to some steaks, Sammy? Put some meat on your bird bones?”

Jo laughed and Ellen smiled, writing something down on a small order pad. 

Sam smiled back at his brother, and seeing the glint of mischief in Dean’s eyes, Sam decided he liked Ellen and Jo Harvelle.


	7. Examinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: References to extreme underage and non-con. See end of chapter for more complete warnings
> 
> Thanks to everyone still following this fic! I apologize wholeheartedly for the delay between updates. Suffice it to say, real life was keeping me both busy and down. But I haven't (and have no intention of ever doing) abandoned this fic.

**16 BC**

Dean hated Alastair. Hated him so much it surprised him when his Master didn’t catch fire from how hard Dean wished it sometimes. But he didn’t.

Each time Alastair came into the room where he kept Dean, he just made Dean hate him more. Dean didn’t know how long he’d been there (though it felt like _forever_ ). But he hadn’t seen Sammy yet, and Alastair kept saying Dean’s Mom and Dad were dead whenever Dean asked about them. So Dean stopped asking. He didn’t believe Alastair, but he didn’t want to hear it anymore.

Mostly, Dean just wanted to see Sammy. And he wanted Alastair to stop hurting him. So Dean had started being good, doing what his Master said. Not because Alastair was the boss of him, though.

Dean heard footsteps in the hall, and the door squeaked open. Dean hurried to kneel on the floor, the way Alastair liked him to be waiting for him.

“Good boy, Dean,” Alastair crooned.

Dean’s nose wrinkled up at the sound of that voice. He was back to wishing Alastair would catch fire again.

“In fact, you’ve been a good boy for almost a week now,” Alastair said. “Guess you think you’re ready for a reward, huh?”

Dean didn’t lift his eyes from the floor. He just shrugged. Alastair didn’t like him to speak without permission, but he didn’t like it when Dean ignored him either.

“Tell you what,” Alastair said, taking long, slow strides over to Dean, only to grab Dean by the hair and pull his head back. Alastair grinned down into his face. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can be good for me for the rest of the day, I’ll let you see your dear, sweet Sammy. That seem fair?”

“Y-yeah,” Dean said, his heart getting fluttery. Was he really gonna see Sammy today?

“Yes,” Alastair corrected, shaking Dean’s head by his hair.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean repeated, wincing. “Yes, Master,” he added. He might as well try being extra good.

“Excellent,” Alastair said, letting go of his hair.

Dean let his head fall so his chin hit his chest. He took deep breaths, waiting to see what Alastair wanted.

“Today, Dean,” Alastair said. “I’m going to take a _good_ look at you. I need to make sure you’re healthy and strong enough to serve me, after all. Think of this as—a check-up.”

“I—I’ve already been to the doctor’s a little while ago,” Dean said, forgetting himself and blinking up at Alastair. He remembered being in the colorful office, being so brave Mom smiled at him and bought a pie that night for after dinner. “I had shots and everything.”

“Oh, I’m not going to give you shots, Dean,” Alastair said. “Just behave and take your clothes off. If I have to tell you again, I’m tearing them off and you won’t see that baby brother of yours for another month.”

Dean didn’t wait for Alastair to get any madder, just peeled off the pajamas he’d been in ever since Alastair and Azazel took him from home. He’d been getting used to the cold of the room, but without the warm flannel, he started shivering again.

“Very good, Dean,” Alastair said.

Dean stood frozen in the middle of the room, while Alastair walked in a circle around him. He reached down and stroked from Dean’s shoulders, around his neck, and over his collarbone with his long, bony fingers.

“Very good. Now get up on the table.”

Trembling a little harder (because nothing good ever happened on the table), Dean crossed the room to the cold metal slab. He still had to jump real high and wriggle a little to get on top of it, but he was getting better at that too.

“Now, sit up,” Alastair said, once Dean had climbed up.

Dean obeyed, and Alastair came over to him, touching Dean all over the place again. He ran a fanned-out hand over Dean’s chest, tweaking at his tiny nipples until Dean yelped. Alastair only chuckled before running his hand lower, resting it over Dean’s belly. He pressed hard, and Dean held his breath, waiting for Alastair to move on. Next, Alastair ran the tips of his fingers over Dean’s private parts, but at that point, Dean jolted away and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Mom told me not to let anyone touch me there, except the doctor.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not a doctor,” he accused.

Alastair clicked his tongue at Dean, and Dean found himself losing his nerve. He bit his lip and looked away when Alastair touched him there again.

“But Dean,” Alastair said, rubbing his thumb over Dean. “You belong to me now. That means this belongs to me too. I get to do whatever I want to _my_ body.”

Dean sniffled a little, but he knew he wasn’t going to cry, not this time.

“Now, I’m going to punish you for telling me no,” Alastair said, not removing his hand. “But then I’ll give you a choice. We can end the examination and you can go another month without seeing Sammy, or you can be a good boy while I finish up and then I’ll take you right to him. Only I warn you, the rest of the examination is going to be _very_ thorough. What’s it going to be, Dean?”

Dean pressed his eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“I want to see Sammy,” he decided.

“Good boy,” Alastair breathed, giving Dean a pat before moving away.

Dean opened his eyes when he heard the scraping of the chair that meant Alastair had sat down.

“Come on,” Alastair said. “Drape yourself over my knee, Dean. I’m going to spank you and then we can complete the rest of your exam.”

Legs turned to jelly, Dean slid off the table and walked over to Alastair, laying down across his lap.

“What do we say, Dean?” Alastair asked, rubbing Dean’s behind.

“Th-thank you, Master.”

~          *          ~

**AD**

Dean stood completely still, shoulders back, head bowed in the middle of his Master’s living room. Sam stood equally tense at his side. Their new Master had mentioned bringing in a doctor to look at them, but Dean had hoped that was just an idle threat. Now, with the gruff, wiry-haired doctor in the room with them, talking to their Master by the door, Dean knew he’d been an idiot to hope.

Whatever the doc was saying now, Master didn’t seem to like it. His jaw was tense, and while Dean couldn’t hear what he was saying, the tension in his tone carried across the room. The doc seemed to be holding his ground, though, and a few seconds later, after casting a quick glance at Sam and Dean, their Master slid out into the hallway, leaving them alone with the stranger.

Shaking his head, the man ambled over to them.

“I’m Dr. Devereaux, but I’d rather you two boys called me Frank. Not master, not doctor, not even sir. Can you manage that?"

“Yes, Frank,” Sam said, and Dean wanted to kiss him for that beautiful confidence.

“Good,” Frank said, nodding. “Now, if I promise I’ve only been into ladies since I hit puberty in 1970, will it affect your delicate sensibilities if I ask you two to strip?”

“O-of course not, Frank,” Sam said, surreptitiously elbowing Dean as he pulled his borrowed sweatpants down.

Dean tried to glare at Sam out of the corner of his eye as he peeled off his own clothes now. Just because Master hadn’t beat the shit out of them yet, it didn’t mean Dean was a big enough dumb ass to refuse a direct order. In fact, out of the two of them, _Dean_ was the one who’d always been best at following orders, thank you very much.

Frank let out a low whistle when Dean straightened up, naked.

“Damn, boy,” he said. “You go five rounds with a grizzly?”

“—No,” Dean said, too indignant to let it slide, but too damn stupid to think up something clever to say in retort. He settled for just glaring at Frank, jutting his chin out at him.

Frank just chuckled. He moved toward Dean and studied the scar patterns woven across his flesh. Dean tensed, waiting for him to reach out and touch, but he didn’t, just stared and occasionally jotted something down on the papers resting on the clipboard in his hand. When he asked Dean to bend down and touch his toes, Dean _knew_ what was coming, braced for the breaching fingers. But instead, Frank just traced the line of his spine. He did ask Dean to bend again and spread his ass cheeks, but even then he just looked. Other than the old “turn your head and cough,” there was no touching of any part of himself Dean considered untoward.

“All right,” Frank said. “You can get dressed for the rest of the exam. That part’s over.”

“Wh-what?” Dean asked, feeling stupid.

Frank just rolled his eyes.

“The fun part’s over. Now, for God’s sake, put your clothes back on while I examine your brother.”

Dean stiffened at that. He climbed back into his pants without taking his eyes off Sammy, while Frank conducted the same professional evaluation of his body. Only when Sam was getting dressed too did Dean stop staring long enough to pull his shirt over his head.

Once they were dressed, Frank listened to their heartbeat and breathing with a stethoscope. He took their pulse and blood pressure with an ancient cuff. He even borrowed a scale of Master’s to weigh them on. He had some choice words to mutter under his breath at Dean’s weight. Dean bristled at that—it’s not like he could do anything about that. Frank would have to take it up with Alastair if he had a problem. After all, until a couple days ago, it had been _his_ body. And he liked Dean lean. Hungry, he called it. And hell, half the time he was right.

The only moment Dean worried they were going to have a problem was when Frank announced he was going to take some of their blood. Dean had felt a bit queasy at the sight of the needle, remembering past encounters with things Alastair thought appropriate to inject into Dean’s blood stream. But that was nothing compared to the look on Sam’s face at the word “blood,” so Dean sucked it up, showed Sam it was no big deal, then held Sammy’s other hand on the sly while the doc siphoned some of his blood out.

“That’s it,” Frank announced, stowing the blood away.

Dean felt his shoulders relax in one giant exhale.

“Except for a few questions,” Frank added.

And then tense right back up again.

“When did you boys both become sexually active?” Frank asked, eyes pinned on his clipboard.

“Um,” Sam started, licking his lips and glancing at Dean, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Six-sixteen. I was sixteen.”

Damn right he was. Dean had given Sam everything except that. He insisted on waiting until Sam’s sixteenth birthday to do the deed, and that had only been a few months ago.

“And are you usually the—er—recipient?” Frank asked.

Sam nodded, blushing.

Frank jotted down another note on his pad. He then turned to Dean, expectant.

“I—uh, I don’t know what you mean,” Dean said, eyeing the carpet. “I mean, if you mean, like blowjobs, that’s one thing, but—”

“Let’s start with penetrative sex,” Frank said, voice tense.

“I dunno—” Dean said. “Seven? Maybe eight?”

“I—I see,” Frank said, writing that down. He cleared his throat before continuing. “And are you usually on the receiving end?”

“Usually,” Dean said, eyes skirting to Sam. “But not always.”

“And how many partners have you had in the last year?”

“One,” Sam said, practically beaming at Dean now.

Dean glared at him, hoping he’d take the hint and put a little shade on it. Fuck.

“And you, Dean?”

Dean started, hearing his name on the doctor’s lips. He chewed on his lip and started a tally.

“I’m, uh, I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “But seventeen that I know of.”

“I see,” Frank said.

Dean had to fight the urge to shout at him that no, he didn’t see. He didn’t know what it was like to be passed around by his Master from one waiting dick to the next, what it was like to wake up, groggy and bleeding, and not sure who’d been up his ass. But Dean knew better than to say shit like that. So he kept his mouth shut and soaked up the feeling of Sam’s fingertips running up and down his arm.

“Well, boys,” Frank said, tucking his clipboard under his arm. “We’re finished. It was a pleasure meeting you, and all that.”

With a perfunctory half-wave, Frank left the room, and Dean turned to Sam, wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist as Sam did the same.

“It’s over,” Dean muttered. “We’re fine.”

But whether the words were meant for himself or Sam, Dean wasn’t sure. Just like Dean wasn’t sure which of them was propping the other up in the moment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS (continued): in the flashback at the beginning, Alastair "examines" Dean, including some definitely inappropriate touches and references of more invasive molestation happening after the scene ends.
> 
> In the present day, Dean reveals he's been sexually active since approximately age seven, and that Alastair has allowed his friends to use Dean, sometimes while Dean is drugged/unconscious.


	8. Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel talks to Frank after the examination, then decides it's been too long since the boys have been outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,   
> Apologies once again for another (even more) ridiculous absence. Suffice it to say real life has not been very nice to me lately. But tonight, working on this fic was just what I needed. So you're getting a relatively "fluffy" chapter.

**AD**

“Well?” Castiel demanded as soon as Dr. Devereaux stepped into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

“Do you have someplace more private we could go to talk?” Dr. Devereaux asked, nodding his head at the door.

Castiel forced his body to compose itself, counting by thirds to 21 in his head before nodding.

“Of course,” he said. “Please follow me.”

Cas lead the way to his study, ushering Dr. Devereaux inside and turning on the light before closing the door behind them.

“What did you find?” he asked, hoping that was more polite than the demanding repetition of “ _Well_?” echoing through his brain.

The doctor sighed and ran a hand through his stiff hair, leaving it sticking out at odd angles.

“I’d want my money back if I were you,” Dr. Devereaux said. “That’s one damaged pair of boys you’ve got there.”

“Of course they’re damaged,” Castiel growled. “They were in hell for God-knows-how-long. What I want to know is your medical findings, not your opinion of their retail value.”

Dr. Devereaux nodded.

“Good man,” he said.

Castiel felt all the air leave his lungs in a huff, like they’d been punctured with a pin. Was this man testing him?

“My ‘medical findings’ are that those boys have been through more than anyone should have to face. Let alone anyone their age. The younger one can’t be quite seventeen yet, and I’d peg the other at four years older than him. The older one is the one you’ll more obviously need to watch out for. He’s been physically and sexually abused since childhood. And while I’m no psychiatrist, I can tell you it would take out a lifetime of therapy to work out all the issues he’s carrying around in that skull of his. And while the younger boy might not have been through as much physically, he’s in no better shape psychologically. He’s sly, distrusting, and I can’t get a read on him. And that’s about enough to scare me to death,” Dr. Devereaux said.

“You think he’s dangerous?” Castiel clarified.

“I know he is. They both are,” Dr. Devereaux said, sighing. “But I don’t think you have anything to worry about. They’re good boys. No human being can care for anything as much as they obviously love each other without being okay in my book.”

“Yes,” Cas said, rubbing his throbbing temples. “I noticed they were very close.”

Dr. Devereaux snorted. “Close,” he echoed. “Did you happen to notice they’re fucking?”

“Wh-what?” Castiel said.

The doctor shrugged.

“I’m not surprised they’d want to hide it. Even for boys who’ve been enslaved their whole lives, incest isn’t usually encouraged.”

“Incest?” Castiel asked, beginning to feel like a parrot.

That gave the doctor pause. He stared at Castiel.

“You didn’t know they were brothers?” he asked.

“I—no,” Cas said, thinking back to stories he’d been told by former POWs during his Garrison training. “I just thought—the bond captives have.”

Dr. Devereaux nodded.

“Well, they’re brothers. Close brothers. And if you want my medical opinion, you shouldn’t go making trouble for them about that. Those two have been all the other has for I don’t know how much of their lives. They’re entitled to this one thing.”

Castiel could only nod. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea of incest. But he’d seen enough pain in both boys’ eyes in his few days of knowing them, he couldn’t begrudge them anything that kept that pain at bay. Dr. Devereaux was right. They deserved all the happiness they could get.

“Very well,” Castiel said. “As far as they’re concerned, I know nothing. What about their current physical condition?”

“The younger one’s fine. Older one’s got two cracked ribs and a swollen ankle. Given how much he likes being touched, I’d suggest making sure he has lots of rest and letting everything heal on its own. I’m mostly concerned about STDs. I’ve taken blood samples and will have the results in a couple of days. I’ll give you a call when they come in.”

“So—that’s it?” Castiel asked, eyes shifting to the door, mind traveling the gap between himself and the boys. “There’s nothing you can do for them?”

“Not right now,” Dr. Devereaux said, adjusting his grip on his medical bag. “I’m hoping anything we do find can be cleared up with some antibiotics. But like I said, I’ll be in touch. In the meantime—try not to scare those two to death, Seraph.”

Castiel nodded, only just managing to stop himself from saluting the doctor out of habit.

Pamela appeared out of nowhere to see Dr. Devereaux to the door. She always seemed to know when she was needed—sometimes Castiel would swear she was psychic. Castiel only paused for a moment, wondering if he should walk the doctor out as well, but he let his desire and his feet carry him back to the living room where the boys waited.

The brothers stood at the far side of the room, barely six inches between them. Dean dropped his hand in a hurry when the door opened, and Castiel felt himself wondering what sort of scene he’d have entered if he’d just materialized behind them. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about the mental images that idea conjured.

The boys looked at him wide eyed, standing awkwardly for a moment. Then Sam folded to his knees, Dean following more quickly a beat later.

“Sam, Dean,” Castiel said, clearing his throat when the names came out oddly husky.

“Sir,” Sam said.

Now that Castiel was here in the room with the brothers, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” he settled on. “For letting the doctor examine you.”

“Of course, sir,” Sam said, a hint of irony in his tone.

Dean was making one of his faces again. Castiel chose to pretend he didn’t notice.

“You’ve had a rough morning,” he said. “What would you like to do with the rest of your day?”

The young men looked up at him, their expressions matching blanks.

Castiel fought the urge to sigh in frustration or scream in outrage. How could they not even know what to do with their time? Or perhaps just how to articulate it? For a moment, Castiel wanted to flee to the library. Bury himself in a book and not emerge again for hours. And he knew Sam would be more than willing to join him in that. But then he took a good look at the boys, and noticed how pale they were. Dean in particular looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in months. If Castiel remembered correctly,in addition to supplying vitamin D, sunlight was supposed to be beneficial to brain chemistry as well.

“How long since you two were outside?” he asked.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes before turning back to Castiel.

“When we were transported here, sir,” Sam said, slowly, like he was worried Castiel might not believe him.

“No, I mean really spent any time outside?”

“I usually accompanied Azazel on his errands, sir,” Sam said. “So—I walked around the city a little maybe six days ago?”

“I’ve been on lock down the past three months,” Dean said, voice emotionless, as soon as Sam finished speaking. “I didn’t leave the estate for that time.”

Castiel felt that rage he was becoming accustomed to since acquiring the brothers sweep through him. He forced it down, worried the boys wouldn’t understand his anger wasn’t directed at them.

“Well, then,” he said. “It’s time you got out a bit, isn’t it? Fortunately, this place has fairly impressive grounds. Why don’t I show you around a little?”

Something in Dean seemed to relax at that, and when Castiel studied his face, it seemed almost grateful.

SPN

Dean was beautiful in the sunlight. He was beautiful all the time, but in the sun, he came alive. His hair glowed, his eyes caught all the golden light and reflected it as brilliant emerald green, and the sunlight brought out his freckles. Sam had spent several nights mapping out the constellations on Dean’s skin, and loved finding new or darker ones peppering the pale flesh.

And Dean obviously loved the warmth, loved to be outside. Of course, Sam knew that was why Alastair would take this away from Dean as punishment.

It was stupid, really, this last lock down. Alastair apparently thought Dean had been sluggish in following an order on the job. He’d taken it out of Dean’s skin and ass first, of course, but then, under the excuse of not trusting Dean, he kept him locked up in the estate for months, not even letting him above the basement level where he could look out windows. It always made Dean desperate to prove his worthiness on the next job, hating the confinement and not wanting a repeat performance. It had never taken much to make him stir crazy. Even these few days at Castiel’s had him itching to leave, to move, to get out of their ridiculously lavish bedroom.

Now, seeing him strolling through the thick grass of Castiel’s back lawn, his shoulders thrown back and relaxed for the first time since their change in ownership, Sam thought he’d like to kiss Castiel in gratitude.

The grounds really were impressive, too; Castiel hadn’t been lying. He had an in-ground swimming pool in the back patio (that Sam had let his gaze linger over. He’d always enjoyed swimming. And he’d like to teach Dean how to. That had been another thing Alastair had decided Dean didn’t need in his education). Beyond that was a swath of green hill, at the crest of which was a fake Greek ruin that reminded Sam of a miniature Parthenon in even worse disrepair. At the moment, they were headed toward a small flower garden surrounding a pond.

Sam glanced over at Dean, who stared transfixed at the vibrant flowers. Sam smile a little, and moved his eyes to Castiel, who he realized was also watching Dean. Their new Master must’ve felt Sam’s eyes on him, though, because the next moment he turned to him, his lips curving up a bit. The expression was almost endearingly awkward. Sam let his own smile fill out.

“Who takes care of all this?” Dean asked, pulling Sam’s stunned attention back to him.

“I hire a landscape service to do all the upkeep. They come a couple times a week, mow the lawn, weed the flowerbeds, that sort of thing,” Castiel said.

Dean chewed his lower lip for a moment. Sam knew that was Dean trying to work up the courage to say something he knew would be a bad idea.

“That must get expensive for you,” he said, eyes on his borrowed shoes now.

Castiel made a noncommittal noise.

“I enjoy it, so it’s worth it,” he said. “Why do you ask, Dean?”

Dean flinched before straightening, looking back at Castiel.

“I could do it,” he offered. “I-if you wanted, sir. And only if you trusted me to be outside. But—I could take care of this for you. All of it.”

“That’s very kind, Dean, but you don’t have to,” Castiel said, pausing when Dean’s whole posture deflated. “But, of course, if you’d be willing, I would certainly appreciate it.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. “Thank you, sir.”

“No,” Castiel said, taking a step forward to touch Dean’s shoulder lightly. “Thank you.”

Castiel dropped his hand and kept moving toward the pond, leaving Sam and Dean to catch up in their own time. Dean turned to Sam, a wide grin breaking out on his face.

“Looks like I’m going to be the gardener, Sammy,” he said. “How’s that for a step up in the world?”

Sam smiled back at him. And he didn’t care that Castiel was only a few yards ahead of them. When Dean was this happy, he needed to savor it, needed to taste that smile on his brother’s lips. So he stepped into Dean’s space, wound an arm around his waist, and did just that.

 


	9. Questions Asked and Answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally asks Castiel the question he's been obsessing over since being rescued. Cas' answer isn't quite what Dean expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Flashback at the beginning involves torture of a minor (Dean is about 10 at the time). For more specific warnings, see end notes.

**10 BC**

Dean lay stretched on his back, arms and legs secured onto the table by thick leather cuffs. His body was pulled into a taught T, arms perpendicular to his body. Alastair even made sure his head was immobile, chin and forehead keeping him from twisting around to see what Alastair was doing only a couple feet away.

“Good morning, Dean,” Alastair said in that same nasal voice as always. The one that made Dean’s flesh prickle. “I have something extra special planned for you today.”

Dean ground his teeth together to stop himself from letting out any pathetic sounds at that. It was way too early in the session to be making noise.

“You’re healing up nicely from last week, I see,” Alastair said, running a rough hand over the still-fresh scars on Dean’s thighs and belly. “Beautiful. So pretty, Dean.”

Dean licked his lips before pressing them shut even tighter.

“Today, we’re going to see how well you scream when I’m burning you.”

Alastair moved into Dean’s line of sight, holding some sort of hand-held device with a metal wand at one end and a curling cord at the other.

Dean couldn’t help it, he started struggling, straining against the cuffs holding him in place. He had no idea what the thing was, but with Alastair, not knowing was never a good thing.

Alastair chuckled and shook his head at the sight.

“C’mon, Dean. You know fighting only makes me harder.”

Dean’s body sagged, motionless at that. It was a good reminder.

“Good boy,” Alastair said. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to leave you or that pretty mouth of yours in any shape to take care of me today.”

He brought the metal tip of the thing in his hand to Dean’s left pectoral. A jolt that first felt like an electric shock ripped into Dean’s flesh, making his body jump in its bonds despite his best efforts to hold still. The longer Alastair held it there, though, the more heat Dean felt at the point of contact. It was too warm at first. Then it was burning, searing away at his flesh. He smelled himself charring, felt his body break out into frantic sweat.

He ground his teeth together even harder, until he heard them groaning inside his head.

Alastair picked the wand up, moving it to Dean’s nipple. The shock came back, and Dean lost control, shrieking out a sharp cry. Then, as Alastair held the wand in place until it burned, Dean stopped fighting the whimpers he’d been holding back. Soon he stopped noticing them, all his attention focused on his body as Alastair burned away one piece of it at a time.

**AD**

Dean wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand before gripping the pruning shears again and bringing them up to a wayward branch. One snip, and the extra stem fell away, leaving the hedge intact. Dean wasn’t a big fan of the geometric bushes. He much preferred the more natural, wild trees that peppered his new master’s land. But the fact that Castiel had given Dean access to something as dangerous as these shears (and unattended too) made the opportunity to use them too good to pass up.

Dean went to town on another branch, and was halfway through shaping up the next bush when he heard footsteps in the grass behind him.

“Finally get sick of all that reading, Sammy?” Dean asked with a grin. Of course his nerd of a brother would rather be inside reading, even on a day like today.

“Actually, I did,” said a deep voice that was definitely not Sammy.

Dean wheeled around to see Castiel standing there, blank faced as ever. For a moment, Dean was tempted to hide the pruning shears behind his back. But that was stupid, because Castiel had already seen him using them. He held them loosely at his side instead, so Castiel could easily knock them out of Dean’s grasp if he wanted.

“You said,” Dean said. “Anything in the shed.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing at Dean.

Dean dropped the pruning shears, then thought better of it and dropped to his knees just for good measure.

“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel said. “I did say that. You don’t have to kneel.”

Dean nodded, but unsure what else to do, stayed where he was.

Castiel sighed, but didn’t comment further. He just stood there, watching Dean in uncomfortable silence.

“Sir?” Dean prompted, after he’d fought off fidgeting longer than even Alastair would think reasonable under that stare.

Castiel started, then, with another dramatic exhale, lowered himself onto the ground beside Dean. Dean had to force himself to stay still and not shy away when Castiel edged a little too close to him.

“Are you happy here, Dean?” Castiel asked.

Dean frowned. Happy? What the hell did that have to do with anything?

“Sir?” he said.

Shit, maybe Castiel wanted to be thanked. After all, he had been pretty decent to them so far. Hadn’t beaten them or fucked them. Had fed them and let them sleep and bathe. Had even let Dean start gardening when he’d asked. It was only reasonable he’d expect some form or gratitude, right?

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, deepening his bow. He bent his whole body forward, lining his face up with Castiel’s crotch. If his master pushed his head forward a little bit, Dean could very easily get him free of his pants and suck him off.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. “I’m very grateful, sir.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back upright.

There was something sad in those blue eyes of his now. Disappointed. Dean’s stomach coiled to see it.

“That wasn’t what I wanted,” Castiel said.

Of course it wasn’t. Since when was Dean smart enough to say what anyone wanted to hear?

“I just—I just wanted to know if you were content,” Castiel said. “If you or Sam wanted—or needed—anything else. I want you to be well-cared for, Dean.”

Dean blinked, biting the inside of his cheek.

“What?” Castiel asked, latching onto his hesitation like a hunting dog that finally sniffed out a raccoon. “What is it, Dean? Anything you want to say, say it. I promise there will be no ramifications.”

Yeah, right. Dean wasn’t buying that. But still—still, Castiel hadn’t done anything to them yet. Maybe his luck could hold out one question longer.

“Sir,” Dean started, sucking in a deep breath like that would help him get the following words out. “Sir, I still don’t understand.”

And then he stalled out. His tongue completely stopped cooperating. He snapped his jaws shut, forcing himself silent.

Castiel waited a full minute before prompting him.

“Understand what, Dean?”

“What you want,” Dean admitted. And that did it, that broke the proverbial dam. Words practically spilled out of him then. “I don’t know what you want from Sam and me. So far, you haven’t ordered us to do a damn thing, except see that doctor. I don’t understand what kind of game you’re playing, and if it’s all just one giant mindfuck, I wish you’d just get on with it already. Because I’m not sure if I can take it if—if—”

And god-fucking-dammit, Dean wasn’t crying. Dean Winchester didn’t cry until at least hour three of torture from Alastair. Unless Alastair fucked him dry. Or Sam was hurting. Dean didn’t just cry because of _feelings_. But here he was, sobbing on the lawn like a four year old. And worse yet was that, when Castiel put a tentative hand on his shoulder, Dean didn’t shrug it off or even flinch. He just leaned a little closer to his master and kept crying.

“It’s okay, Dean, it’s okay,” Castiel whispered, rubbing small circles over the scar tissue on Dean’s shoulder blade. “I’m not playing with you, I promise.”

Dean didn’t fight the comfort. He just took it, like he would anything else his master gave him. And when he was all cried out, laying limp and exhausted in Castiel’s lap, Castiel went right on talking.

“I don’t want _anything_ from you, Dean,” he said. “You or Sam, except that you heal. I claimed you back at Azazel and Alastair’s because I saw something in you, in the way you and Sam looked out for each other. I saw goodness there, Dean, and I thought it deserved the chance to flourish.”

Dean flinched, stilling again when he knew Castiel must’ve felt the gesture.

Gently, Castiel’s other hand reached beneath Dean’s chin, angling his head up so they could see into each other’s faces.

“What is it, Dean?” Castiel asked, frowning and studying him.

Dean looked away, focusing on a buttercup to the left of Castiel’s knee.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” Castiel said finally.

Dean’s shoulders slumped.

It was true. Sam, yes. Sam deserved everything. He was good and smart and beautiful. Dean—Dean was ninety percent crap, and he knew it. Whatever bullshit Castiel was spewing right now, Dean wasn’t going to fall for it.

Castiel pulled his hands away from Dean’s body, like he finally realized what filth he was touching.

“You don’t have to believe me right now, Dean,” he said. “But you will see it in time. You’re a good man. Anyone who spent five minutes with you would have no doubts about that. Now come on.”

Castiel pushed himself onto his feet. After brushing the seat of his pants off, he held a hand down to Dean.

“Let’s go back to the house. I believe Pamela was going to make lemonade.”

And despite the fact that Dean could go from kneeling to standing in three seconds flat, no problem, he took the hand Castiel offered, and let his master haul him to his feet.

SPN

“Hey, Sam?” Dean asked that night as he stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Sam turned around, from his position curled up against Dean’s side, so he was half-laying on his big brother’s chest, looking down into his face.

“Hmm?” Sam asked, smiling that ridiculous sleepy smile of his.

Dean felt an answering smile on his own lips, and he reached up to press a small kiss to the tip of Sam’s nose. Sam just rolled his eyes and collapsed back on the mattress in answer, draping one arm over Dean’s abs.

“Do you think—” Dean asked, biting his lip. “Do you think maybe Castiel is for real?”

“How so?” Sam asked, waking up enough to turn his most piercing listening face on Dean.

Dean shrugged.

“I dunno, just, in general. Like, maybe he doesn’t really want anything from us. Maybe he just wants to help.”

Sam was quiet for a while before answering.

“I don’t know, Dean,” he said. “Doesn’t everybody want something from everyone else?”

“And what do you want from me?” Dean asked, lightening the mood.

Sam was right. Of course Cas was just playing some sort of long con. It was stupid of him to ever doubt it.

“Oh, you know what I want,” Sam said, grinning and grinding up against Dean. His expression lost its mischief after he scanned Dean’s face again, though, and instead he reached up and traced absent patterns across Dean’s chest, purposefully not following the marks there.

“All the same,” he added. “Castiel doesn’t seem like such a bad guy. Maybe he really does want us to be okay too. You can want something from someone and still want them to be happy, I guess.”

Dean nodded, watching as Sam yawned and stretched his ridiculously lanky frame.

“And what about you, Sam?” he asked, voice barely a whisper. “Are you happy?”

“Oh, Dean,” Sam said, some of the heat leaking back into his voice. “Don’t you know? I’m always happy when we’re together.”

Dean scoffed at his corny baby brother, but he didn’t protest when Sam crawled up his body and captured his lips in a hungry kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings (Continued): Alastair tortures bound, 10 year old Dean with an extreme version of a violet wand (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Violet_wand). Electrocution and burning ensue.


	10. A Guest Bearing News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: creepy/inappropriate treatment of a child
> 
> I promise I had a plot planned when I started this fic! Slowly, it will start to unfold...I hope.

**8 BC**

Sam knelt in the middle of his Master’s study, while Azazel walked in a slow circle around him. He kept his body as still as he could, while Azazel made soft clicking motions with his tongue.

“You’re such a good boy, Sam,” he said. “Such a special boy. My special child. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” Sam said, speaking softly, the way his Master liked.

“Good, good,” Azazel said.

He broke off his circuit to stalk over to the couch. He said down, legs spread apart at first, watching Sam. Then, he brought his knees together and patted his lap.

“Come here, Sam.”

Sam obeyed, standing on prickly, pins and needle feet, and walking over to his Master. He lowered himself gently into Azazel’s lap. Azazel pulled him closer, until Sam’s back was pressed against Azazel’s chest. Then his Master lowered a hand to run it through Sam’s hair.

“Good,” he whispered. “Such a good boy. And you’re always going to do what I say, right Sam?”

Sam nodded, his Master’s hand moving with his head.

“And why is that?” Azazel asked.

“Because I belong to you, Master,” Sam said.

“Excellent. Say it again,” Azazel crooned, the hand in Sam’s hair resting more firmly on his scalp, as blunt nails scratched at the roots of his hair.

“I belong to you, Master.”

“Again.”

**AD**

Their new Master seemed anxious this morning. On edge. Dean had clearly noticed it too, and his body was sending off even more waves of anxiety than usual. Sam tried to convince him to go outside, do some gardening, get some fresh air (leave Sam alone), but he just gave Sam that look that clearly said, “you’ve got to be fucking kidding.” So instead, both he and Castiel spent the morning driving Sam crazy while he tried to read a book on criminal law in the study.

Dean knelt next to Sam on the floor, jiggling his leg , fingers tapping on his thigh. Across the room, Castiel glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece for the third time in five minutes. Sam let the heavy book in his lap fall shut with a dull thud.

“Sir, can we do anything to please you this morning?” Sam asked, aiming for soothing but worried the irritation was coming through loud and clear.

Castiel actually flinched in his seat, and stared at Sam with an almost guilty look in his eyes.

“I apologize if I seem—on edge. My brother called this morning to inform me he was coming over. I admit his visits always leave me tense.”

“Will you be wanting me to service him, Sir?” Dean asked, shifting his body so he blocked out Sam’s legs, like that was somehow going to shield Sam from Castiel’s memory, or perhaps from his will.

“What?” Castiel said, eyes widening. “No, nothing like that. And normally, I’d encourage you both to duck for cover. Unfortunately, Gabriel outranks me in the Garrison, and he already informed me he wanted to ‘inspect’ my new ‘acquisitions.’”

Castiel paused, pursing his lips.

“I apologize, his words.”

Sam shrugged and opened his book again. “Acquisition” was hardly the worst thing he’d been called in his life. And it wasn’t like it was inaccurate.

An obnoxious chime filled the whole building, continuing on into a repetitive melody that went on much longer than Sam thought necessary in a doorbell.

Castiel winced.

“That’ll be Gabriel now. Pamela will show him in.”

As their new Master, expected, Sam heard Pamela’s confident, even footsteps in the marble hall, then the heavy front door swinging open.

“Hey there, good lookin’,” a new voice said. “Long time, no see.”

“Cute,” Pamela said. “What do you say to deaf people?”

The stranger, their Master’s brother, laughed at that, the sound growing louder as Pamela led him to the library.

“Oh, come on,” the man said from the doorway. “You know I don’t mean any harm.”

“You may not mean any, Gabriel, but as usual, your jokes are more painful than they are amusing,” Castiel said, standing as a short man with gold brown eyes and hair almost as long as Sam’s entered the room.

The man did a double take as he looked up at Castiel, placing one hand over his heart.

“You wound me, brother. And anyway, Pam thinks I’m hilarious.”

Pamela snorted, not even bothering to acknowledge Castiel or the newcomer again before leaving and heading back down the hall.

Their Master’s brother had a confident smirk on his face, which stayed put even as his eyes flickered over to Sam and Dean. Sam thought he detected a bit less swagger in the expression then, though. His eyes seemed to harden a bit. Sam surprised himself by staring back at the stranger. This guy wasn’t their Master, and while maybe he outranked Castiel at work, Sam gathered Castiel didn’t like him very much. Which most likely meant he wouldn’t be offering them up for his entertainment or listening to any tips the guy might have on how to treat one’s slaves.

“Gabriel,” Castiel said, drawing Gabriel’s attention back to him. “Welcome to my home. Based on our  conversation earlier, I gather this isn’t a social visit.”

“No,” Gabriel said, back to studying Sam and Dean.

Dean dropped his eyes to his lap and kept them there. Sam kept up his even stare.

“Mostly I dropped by to see what my little bro requested in his raid on hell itself,” Gabriel said. “I figure, something pretty impressive has to come out of the raid of a lifetime. Tell me, which of you two fellas has a solid gold dick?”

Dean shrunk in on himself, drawing his shoulders together. Sam caught the motion out of his peripheral vision and edged out of his seat a few inches, his shins at his brother’s back.

“Gabriel, I will thank you not to discuss my newest guests as if they were toys in a sex shop. If you can’t treat them as human beings, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Relax, Casserola,” Gabriel said, holding his hands up in mock surrender before edging over toward one of the wing-backed chairs and flinging himself into it, legs hanging over the sides. “Just trying to make conversation with your newest ‘guests.’ And that’s a pretty neat term for someone who can’t leave the premises without your permission. Guess they can check out anytime they like, but they can’t never leave.”

Gabriel turned his attention back to Sam and Dean.

“So what about it, fellas? My little bro treating you okay? I take it he’s not getting laid on the regular now, so not much is new there.”

“Sir has been treating us very well,” Dean said to the floor. “Sir,” he tacked on at the end.

Sam couldn’t help but be a little proud of his brother, for speaking to a new stranger. And that defensive edge to his voice—Sam wasn’t sure it was totally warranted. Sure, Castiel has been great so far, but that was only so far. A lot could change at any moment. All the same though—it was always good to hear Dean assert himself with anyone ever.

“Swell,” Gabriel said, pulling something from the pocket of his jacket.

He took off a wax paper wrapper and dropped it on the library floor. Sam then realized the thing in his hand was a bright red sucker. Gabriel popped it into his mouth, the candy making a small bulge in his cheek.

“So, has Cas been taking you out for walks on the regular? Getting you used to society? You know, re-acclimated to the world after spending your nights locked up in a fucking dungeon together?”

Dean actually looked up at that, and directly at Castiel, like he was waiting on permission or perhaps direction on how to answer.

“Like my brother told you,” Sam said. “Our new Master has been treating us well. It’s been ages since we last slept in a dungeon.”

“Sure, sure,” Gabriel said. “But what about actual rehabilitation? Has he made any moves to help you readjust?”

“Really, Gabriel,” Castiel said, still standing, and now towering over his brother. “I don’t know what you’re getting at here, but I’d appreciate you not putting them on the spot. Sam and Dean are making a difficult adjustment, and I’m trying to give them the space—”

“Yeah, well, they’re not going to get that,” Gabriel interrupted, sitting upright in his chair.

“Pardon?” Castiel said.

Sam felt Dean press up against his legs a little more.

“Space,” Gabriel said. “There’s talk among the higher-ups at the Garrison that they’re going to want to question your two ‘guests’ about Alastair and Azazel’s more secret dirty dealings.”

Sam felt his stomach drop harder than when Azazel started training him in hand to hand combat and would flip him to the mat regularly.

“What?” Castiel demanded, dropping into a chair opposite his brother. “But—why? The testimony given by a slave isn’t admissible in court.”

Gabriel shrugged.

“I don’t know all the details. Just that there’ve been rumblings. I guess Alastair and Azazel won’t talk. Our superiors are probably just looking for enough dirt to convince them they’ve flipped on each other, get them to actually do so. We have enough evidence already to imprison them both indefinitely, though, so I don’t know.”

Sam reached down to grip Dean’s shoulder, aware of the tremors running down his arm and through his fingers. Dean must’ve felt them too, because he reached back and placed his own hand on top of Sam’s, resting it there with its warm, reassuring weight.

Gabriel looked back at Sam and Dean and sighed. He looked so damn weary for a moment, Sam was half-convinced Azazel and Alastair were going to walk free, that maybe the Garrison was fighting a losing battle at convicting them of their crimes.

“Look, Cas,” Gabriel said, turning back to his brother. “I don’t know when they’re going to call for your boys here. I don’t even know _if_ they will. It just—it wouldn’t be easy for anyone to testify against monsters who held them captive for sixteen years. If they’re going to get through it—if they’re going to be able to give the Garrison enough information to get them off all of your backs, and if they’re going to survive the whole questioning process with their minds intact, you need to start getting them help now. In any way you can.”

Castiel dropped his head.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“You could start by not talking about us like we aren’t even in the fucking room,” Dean said, speaking up from his place on the floor.

Sam’s gaze snapped over to their new Master’s. So far he’d been true to his word about not beating them, but then Dean had never disrespected him in front of a guest—a superior no less—before.

Dean raised his head, looking directly at Gabriel for the first time.

“If they want me to tell them everything Alastair’s done, everything I know about, I will. Just point me in the right direction. If I can keep him and that sick son of a bitch brother of his locked up forever, I’ll do it. Hell, I’d let you bleed me out here and now if you could come up with a convincing argument of how that might help,” Dean said.

Sam looked back at his brother. He could only see the back of his head at the moment, but he knew exactly what his face would look like in that moment. He’d have that defiant set to his jaw, that iron-hard glint in his eye. Every time he got like this, Sam worried for him. But at the same time, it was unbelievably sexy. Seeing his brother so much himself—so much his true self, the version of him Alistair had tried to squash out for all of those years—it was a beautiful thing.

“Dean—” Castiel said, but then he stopped and shook his head.

Sam smiled despite himself, rubbing Dean’s shoulder with his thumb.

“I’m with you, Dean,” he said. “I’m with you.”

Gabriel studied them again, then slowly, he nodded, that smirk he’d worn on his way in returning to his face.

“All right,” he said. “Maybe I was wrong about you two. You have guts fellas, and if my sources are right—if you are going to be questioned by my hardass Garrison superiors—you’re going to need guts. And balls of steel wouldn’t hurt either.”

Dean’s head tilted back as he stuck his chin out even further.

“I think we’re going to be just fine, Sir,” he said.

Gabriel chuckled a bit.

“You know what? I think you will be too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I've been eternally absent again. Updates will keep coming, hopefully at a less glacial pace once I'm finished with grad school at the end of April.
> 
> I'm also cooking up an idea for a new fic, so suffice it to say, I do have the motivation to write--just not the time.


	11. Hard Truths to Swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, somehow this chapter got even sappier than usual on me. But here's Castiel having some feelings, anyway.

Castiel sat on the bar stool beside his brother. This wasn’t the kind of place he would come to willingly. It was all modern—glass and sharp angles. Harsh. Although, he supposed that reflected his mood at the moment. Gabriel was the one who insisted they go out. He claimed Castiel “looked like he could use a drink. Or twenty.” And Castiel really couldn’t argue with that. So he’d let himself be dragged into the city, to this miserable bar with some sort of music that didn’t seem to be played on any actual instruments and consisted primarily of a beat that hammered itself into Castiel’s brain pounding away in the background.

“So,” Gabriel said, reaching greedily for whatever neon pink drink the bartender had concocted for him (it had a tiny umbrella in it, for God’s sake). “Spill.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel said, sipping his straight vodka, not feeling particularly willing to share with his older brother at the moment.

“C’mon,” Gabe said. “First I find out—not from you, I might add—all you asked for in the big raid was two totally shattered slaveboys. And I can’t decide whether to be worried you wanted Azazel and Alistair’s sloppy seconds or excited that you finally found someone to play hide the salami with. Then I show up to find you making swoony, Jane Austen character faces at them. _And_ when I give you my little warning about Garrison command’s plans, you get all gloomy looking like I just stabbed your puppy. Or your new boy toys.”

“Haven’t you?” Castiel demanded, pouring the rest of his drink down his throat.

“Excuse you?”

“You may as well have come into my home with a blade and run them both through,” Castiel said. “They survived _years_ in hell, Gabriel. Actual hell. What do you think it’s going to do to them? Rehashing all that trauma for our oh-so-sensitive commanders?”

“Okay, first of all, I am not responsible for any of this. Messenger, do not shoot. Remember? And Secondly, I don’t know,” Gabriel said, taking a sip of his own drink through a yellow looping straw. “Maybe this can help them get some of it off their chests? Who knows, Cassie? Talking it out may be _good_ for them.”

Castiel snorted.

“Talking it out. Right. With Garrison soldiers. They won’t even talk about their past with me, I doubt they’re going to feel comfortable sharing with my superiors. This could destroy them, Gabriel. Dean especially. He’s—fragile.”

“Dean?” Gabriel said. “That the green-eyed, freckly firecracker? He didn’t seem so fragile to me.”

“Yes, well you don’t know him, Gabriel,” Castiel spat.

“That’s true,” Gabe allowed. “Do you?”

“I—” Castiel began. But then he stopped, slumped down on his stool. “No,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose not.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel said. “And how could you? You’re not their friend, Castiel. You’re their master. Sure, you see them every day, at their best and worst, I imagine. That’s inevitable. But they’re not going to open up to you. You literally _own_ them. There’s no way your relationship with them could ever be on an equal footing.”

Castiel sighed, signaling the bartender for another drink.

“I know,” he said.

He and Gabriel sat in silence for a while, until Castiel had downed about half of his next vodka.

“I just don’t get it, Gabriel.”

“Get what? This crazy, messed up thing we call life?”

“No,” Castiel said, swirling the liquid in his glass. “They’re slaves. Why is the Garrison bothering with them anyway? Slave testimonies are never given much weight at court, we all know that. And why bother? Azazel and Alistair are guilty. The trial is just a formality.”

“Yeah, well, it should be. But apparently your little raid didn’t drain all of the bastards’ resources. They hired legal counsel. And not just any fast-talker in a robe, either. Abaddon.”

Castiel felt a little ill. And not because he’d chugged two vodkas in twenty minutes. Abaddon. Nicknamed the destroyer. Destroyer of justice, he’d always thought. Whenever she showed up in a courtroom, it was always for the very scum of the earth. She was clever, a little too clever, and vicious. In the end, she almost always won her case, often by finding dirt on the prosecution or Garrison soldiers involved in the arrest. Just enough to paint her client as some maligned victim. If Castiel hadn’t seen for himself what sort of atrocities Azazel and Alistair had inflicted on the world for the past few decades, he might have been more worried about what Abaddon could do in the role of their defense counsel. But then, he realized, whoever would be acting as justice over the case wouldn’t have the first-hand knowledge of the case that Castiel did himself.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hanging his head.

“Yeah, ‘fuck’ is right,” Gabe agreed. “Shit, Castiel, if these dickbags go free, do you have any idea how catastrophic it would be? Like, for the world. Azazel and Alistair—pissed off and looking for revenge. And dangerous for you too, I might add. Leader of the raid that brought them in. If this trial goes south, I’d take a good long vacation with a few bodyguards, if I were you. And if your new pets really do testify against the brothers, I don’t like their odds of survival either.”

“Fuck,” Castiel said again.

He ordered another drink. And then he planned to order seventeen more. There was really nothing else to do.

SPN

Cas stumbled through the front door, Gabriel close behind him, giggling.

“Shh!” Cas warned, finger to his lips. He swayed in place, and Gabriel looked a little blurry when Castiel turned to glare at him. “Don’t wake up the house.”

“I didn’t know it could sleep!” Gabriel said, starting himself off on another burst of laughter. “Get it? Cassie? Because, y’know. It’s a house.”

“I get it,” Castiel said. “You’re very clever, Gabriel.”

“Cassie,” Gabe said, clutching at his shoulder and leaning in, whispering. “I forget the way to the guest room.”

“Follow me,” Castiel said.

Stumbling himself, he managed to support most of Gabriel’s weight through the corridors of the mansion. He deposited his brother at the door to the guest room. Gabe gave him a wobbly salute before disappearing inside. Castiel heard a loud bump that told him Gabriel had had a run in with some furniture, but the “ow” that followed assured him his brother was still alive. He turned and was about to make a beeline to his own bedroom when he paused. He could swing by Sam and Dean’s room. Just to, you know, check in on them. Make sure they were sleeping well, and all. It had been a rough day, and Castiel had sort of abandoned them.

It’s not like he wanted to, well, watch Dean sleep or anything like that. Maybe looking a little more peaceful than he usually did. Not carrying all that pain and anger. The way he looked when he looked at Sam. Only at Sam. Like Sam was everything good in the world. He never looked at Cas like that. Never would. Gabriel was right, after all. Castiel was just their master. Nothing more.

And look. There he was, right outside the door. Might as well just peek his head in. So long as he was super quiet about it.

Cas turned the doorknob and leaned in. But then he leaned a little too hard, lost his balance, and stumbled into the room.

Dean sprang up in bed instantly, body tensed and ready to attack. Sam rose up a little slower, blinking into the darkness.

“Shit,” Castiel mumbled.

“M-Master?” Sam asked, voice thick with sleep.

“‘S okay,” Cas slurred. “Jus’ go back to sleep.”

Sam nodded and lied back down again.

“Are you all right?” Dean whispered. “Sir?”

Cas nodded emphatically. Then, because he wasn’t sure how much Dean could see in the dark, he added, “Yes. Uh-huh. Totally fine. Totally and comple’ly.”

“Are you—drunk?” Dean hissed.

Castiel paused. Then nodded again.

“Yes. Uh-huh. Totally.”

He heard a sigh, and then Dean was climbing out of bed. Sam made some soft noise, but Dean shushed him, bending down to kiss his forehead. Cas didn’t like the way his stomach flipped at the sight. But then, Dean was coming over to him, hovering over him, holding out an arm to steady him. But his hand was hovering, just inches way.

“Sir, may I touch you?” Dean whispered.

Castiel took another step forward, leaning toward Dean until the slave was holding him upright.

“You’re strong,” Castiel said, reaching up to trace Dean’s bicep in the darkness. Dean flinched, but he didn’t let go of his grip on Cas.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me help you get back to your room, Sir.”

“You don’t know where it is!” Castiel whined, as Dean propelled him down the hallway.

“Yes I do. Come on.”

Castiel blinked, letting Dean lead him down all the right halls and into his bedroom.

“I’m turning on a light now,” Dean said, lighting the lamp with a gaudy satin shade that sat next to Castiel’s bed.

“I’ve always hated that lamp,” Castiel said, barely noticing Dean pulling him further into the room. “I don’t know why I never got rid of it.”

“Because you like to keep ugly things around, Sir,” Dean said. “I’m going to undress you now, with your permission.”

Cas grinned at him, lifting his arms above his head for Dean to strip his shirt off.

“Oh, Dean, you could do just about anything to me. But wait!” he said, stepping away just as Dean had the shirt pulled up around his arms. He lowered his arms, white fabric tangled around them. “U-ugly things. You don’t mean—you don’t mean you, do you? Because, you’re beautiful, you know. You and Sam both. But you especially. The way you look when you’re outside. In the sun. Happy. Happy and beautiful.”

Dean stood unmoving before him, just staring at Castiel. After waiting patiently for a while, Cas flopped his arms pathetically drawing his attention back to the task at hand. Dean got back to work, gently positioning Cas’ arms so he could pull the bunched-up shirt away.

“I didn’t know you felt that way, Sir,” Dean said, voice soft. “You never said. But then why—”

Castiel waited for him to finish.

He didn’t.

“Why _what_ , Dean?” he demanded.

“I’ve already offered to service you, if you desired it. I just assumed—” Dean paused again. “I don’t understand why you would deny yourself, Sir. If you wanted me.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, feeling the warm glow of the alcohol leaving him in a rush, but leaving behind all his lack of coordination.

He reached a hand up to cup Dean’s cheek, but he ended up swiping an inch in front of his face instead. He tried again, and finally his hand connected with stubbly skin, He rubbed his thumb over a cheek bone.

“You’ve had so much pain in your life,” he whispered. “I don’t want to add to it.”

Dean closed his bright green eyes. He took a deep breath in, held it, exhaled. Castiel felt the warm air on his forearm, raising the hair there.

“Thank you,” Dean said, opening his eyes to stare into Castiel’s. Into his soul, it felt like. “Thank you, Sir.”

They broke apart and there was an awkward moment of them just watching each other. Then, Dean dipped his head and moved back into Cas’ space, unbuttoning his pants and peeling them away, lifting Cas’ feet one at a time to guide them out of the slacks. Dean folded both articles of clothing, placed them on a chair in the corner, and pulled a pair of flannel pajamas out of the top drawer of Castiel’s dresser. He set the clothes on the bed, then put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, steering him backwards to the bed as well. When the back of Castiel’s legs connected with the mattress, he let Dean press him down until he was seated. Then Dean knelt and started unlacing Cas’ dress shoes.

“Dean,” Castiel said, feeling more clear-headed by the moment. “I—I would very much like for you to not be afraid of me.”

Dean was silent, but Castiel could sense his attentiveness as he slipped off Castiel’s shoes and started in on his socks.

“Thank you for doing this. For—for taking care of me tonight,” Castiel continued. “But Dean, I want to be more than just your master. If there’s any way I can be.”

“I believe you,” Dean said, lifting his head to look Castiel in the eye again. “I do. But—I don’t know if that can happen. I don’t know if I can just _not_ be afraid of you.” He looked away again, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth again before he finished his thought with a hesitant, “Castiel.”

Castiel smiled. Dean had used his real name. Voluntarily. He felt lighter instantly. But the next moment, he wasn’t sure how much of that was due to the alcohol. The room seemed to be spinning to the left, which he doubted was a direct result of Dean making an effort to be less subservient.

He groaned, dizzy, and felt himself lilting to the side again. Dean only chuckled softly and picked up Castiel’s pajama top, threading his arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up. Dean started getting him into the pajama pants next, lifting Cas up by the waist when he needed to pull them up over his hips. Cas let himself be positioned so he was lying on his side on the bed. Dean even grabbed the wastebasket from the corner and set it on the floor by his head, just in case.

“Can I do anything else for you?” Dean asked, the “sir” implied rather than stated this time.

“No,” Castiel said. “You’ve already done so much. More than I have any right to—”

“It’s all right,” Dean said, cutting him off gently. He pulled the covers up to Castiel’s chin. “Get some rest, Castiel.”

Cas closed his eyes, and savored the sound of Dean saying his name as he fell asleep.


	12. Bodies in Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for Trigger Warnings
> 
> I was feeling Wincesty this week (and always).

**8 BC**

Dean lay out on the metal table, taking deep breaths. Alistair stood over him, running a hand up and down the inside of his right thigh. His hand was cold, and the touch of it had all the hair on Dean’s body raised up.

“All right, Dean,” Alistair crooned over him. “Today’s a special day, my beautiful boy. Today’s the day I finally make you a man.”

Alistair’s hand wandered up higher, until his long fingers stroked Dean’s asshole. Dean took a deep breath and tensed. Alistair only chuckled and slid the tip of his middle finger inside.

“Shh, Dean, I know you want it. You wanna be a man, don’t you?”

Dean didn’t respond. He stared up at the ceiling and tried not to struggle against the cuffs keeping him in place. Alistair had touched him there before, of course, but something about the way he was talking today had Dean thinking Alistair was going to be doing more than just touching. He’d been talking about his plans for Dean’s ass for years—putting his whole body to use, he’d say. Dean just tried to breath through it as Alistair pumped his finger in and out, up to the first knuckle, dry.

“Of course you do,” Alistair spoke on, those eyes of his taking in every twitch of Dean’s muscles. “You’re what? Twelve years old now. It’s about time you took on every role a big boy like you can have. Gonna open this hole of yours up for business.”

Alistair reached over onto his “tool table” and removed a long knife instead of his usual scalpel. Dean tracked the motion of the long, shining blade carefully.

“Thought we could use something special in honor of the occasion,” Alistair said with a wink. “You see, Dean, I’m what they like to call ‘well-endowed.’ And my monster cock isn’t fitting into that tight ass of yours without doing some potentially life-threatening damage. Not without something to help slick the way. Fortunately, that little body of yours has all sorts of good lubrication running along inside it.”

Alistair brandished the knife in front of Dean’s face to bring his point across.

“So what’ll it be, Dean-o? Want me to slick up the channel a little or fuck you dry? The choice is yours.”

Dean pressed his eyes closed. Alistair wasn’t going to do whatever he wanted in the end. He’d already proven through the years that he owned Dean’s body. But Dean really didn’t know what he was in for this time, and if Alistair was offering a less painful option—

“Please slick me up, Master,” he said, opening his eyes to look into Alistair’s, the way his Master liked.

“Come on, Dean. You can do better than that. What exactly do you want me to do for you?”

Dean licked his lips, feeling the same churning shame in his stomach he always felt when Alistair convinced him to beg for something.

“Please cut me open,” Dean said, wracking his brain to find the words Alistair would like best. “Please make me bleed, Master. And please use that blood to help when you f-fuck me.”

“Good,” Alistair said, bringing the blade down against Dean’s flesh to slice into the soft skin at the bottom of his abdomen, near his pelvic bone. “We’ll make a proper slut of you yet.”

Dean winced as the blade sliced through such sensitive skin. But then, a moment later, Alistair reached two fingers _inside_ the seam made by the cut, slicking them up in Dean’s blood. Dean’s whole body locked up at the feel of Alistair’s rough fingers inside his wound, wriggling, probing inside him.

“From one hole to another, eh?” Alistair said, shoving both fingers into Dean’s ass at once.

Dean couldn’t decide what hurt worse. The assault on the cut, or this. Alistair hadn’t been gentle, and already he was moving those fingers inside Dean somehow, like he was stretching Dean’s insides. Dean wondered if he was about to be ripped apart.

“Fuck, Dean, this ass is so tight. If you can’t relax, I might just kill you without even trying. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Those fingers kept moving, in and out and stretching. Dean felt his whole body trembling at the sensation, the fear of what was coming next.

“Deep breaths, boy, unclench your muscles,” Alistair instructed.

On instinct, Dean obeyed. He breathed in when Alistair ordered, then back out. He worked on loosening all of his muscles, his whole body. Alistair reached up for more blood, now trickling freely from Dean’s wound. Alistair uncuffed Dean’s ankles and bent his legs up against his chest. When he removed his hands, Dean stayed in place without even thinking about it. Then Alistair dropped his pants, hauling out his cock. Dean had seen it before, of course. Had had it in his mouth, choked on it a few times. But now, he paid attention to just how big it was.

Palm covered in Dean’s blood, Alistair stripped his cock a few times, and then, with a sickening grin, he shoved himself inside of Dean. Dean didn’t even have time to fight the scream that tore out of him. And then Alistair was bent over Dean, his breath in Dean’s face, Dean’s legs cramping up between them, Alistair’s cock pounding away in his ass. Dean knew it was killing him. Could swear he _felt_ his body ripping apart at Alistair’s thrusts. But Alistair kept going. Dean realized he was weeping at one point, but that was all he could do. Cry, and take it.

At some point, he must’ve lost consciousness, or maybe just left his body, like he did during Alistair’s worst punishments. When he came back, it felt like his entrails were on fire. His asshole burned the worst. His thighs were sticky and itchy with dried blood and Alistair’s come, and there was a tugging at his skin that he only later realized was Alistair stitching up the cut he’d made for Dean’s blood.

All Dean really understood in that moment was the pain. And he tried to accept that pain was all he was ever going to feel in his life.

**AD**

“Easy, Sammy,” Dean soothed, fingers pumping in and out of his little brother’s ass.

Sam lay on their bed, legs splayed wide, hands clutching at the sheets. His chest heaved as he panted, and he watched Dean through greedy eyes.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Dean said, speeding up the process a little bit at the completely debauched sight Sam made.

In another minute, he was hovering over Sam, sinking into his body inch by inch. Sam had never been a gentle lover. When Dean was halfway seated, Sam wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist, and he pulled Dean into him the rest of the way. After Dean found his rhythm, fucking into Sam hard and fast like he liked, Sam’s nails raked up and down Dean’s back, scraping over old scars and sometimes making new ones. Not that Dean minded. He’d let Sam mark up his body every day if that’s what the kid wanted.

Sam made these dainty fucking breathy moans while Dean pounded into him, completely at odds with the way his body surged up to meet Dean at each thrust. His voice got higher and higher the closer he got to coming, and then he started chanting Dean’s name. It drove him wild every time. Dean growled a little at the back of his throat and found a new angle, one that would let him drive into Sam with all the force in his body. He reached between them to wrap a hand around Sam’s cock, and less than a dozen strokes later, Sam shouted, gripping Dean’s waist with bruising force. His whole body went rigid as he came, then fell back completely lax while Dean finished up inside him.

When they were both satisfied, Dean brushed Sam’s sweat-matted hair out of his face before curling up next to him on the mattress.

Sam’s chest twitched a little, and when Dean craned his neck to get a better look, he realized his brother was laughing softly, staring up at the ceiling.

“What’s so funny?” Dean asked, reaching out to trace one of Sam’s ribs.

“Nothing,” Sam said, turning his grin on his brother. “I just—feel good.”

“Good,” Dean said, but he looked away before Sam had a chance to read his face. “You deserve it. You deserve to feel good all the time.”

“Oh no,” Sam said, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at Dean in mock disapproval. “Already getting morose again? I could’ve enjoyed the afterglow for at least another minute.

“Sorry,” Dean said, stiffening.

Of course. He even messed up Sammy’s orgasms.

“No, don’t be like that. What’s on your mind, Dean?”

“Really, Sam?” Dean demanded, raising an eyebrow at him. “You even have to ask?”

Sam’s lip quirked up on one side, showing off his damn dimple.

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m asking all the same.”

“I get it,” Dean said. “You asked me to fuck you so you could soften me up, get me to talk, huh?”

Sam shrugged, stretched out his arms, and then lied back down beside Dean, resting his head on his brother’s chest.

“Did it work?”

Dean ran a hand through Sam’s hair, calmed as always by the feel of it between his fingers. He was quiet for a moment, just thinking. He knew Sam didn’t like it when Dean got too overprotective. He knew the kid could take care of himself. But he also knew, and was pretty sure Sam did deep down too, that putting himself in harm’s way for Sam’s sake was a well-established pattern in their relationship. So he had to try.

“You know, Sam,” he said. “If they do call us up to squeal on our old Masters—I’m sure we could find a way you don’t have to. I could convince them you don’t know anything. It wouldn’t be too hard either. All you’d have to do is give Master Castiel that innocent face of yours, and I could go in alone.”

“Dean,” Sam huffed, and there it was, that frustration, and maybe just a bit of resentment. “If we do have to talk to go in for questioning, we’re going to do it together. I’ll be fine. It won’t be that bad. Besides, you know I have some good information about Azazel and Alistair’s financial accounts. I was more involved in the bookkeeping than Azazel was at the end.”

“I know,” Dean murmured into Sam’ scalp. “That’s what worries me.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, peering back up at Dean.

Dean forced a smile and shook his head.

“Don’t listen to me,” he said. “You know how paranoid I can get. You’re right. It won’t be that bad.”

“What about you?” Sam asked, still staring at Dean with those too-clever eyes. “Are _you_ going to be okay? You know, talking about—the past?”

Dean held Sam a little tighter.

“The way I figure it, I already lived through it all. Hell, I did a lot of the shit they’re going to want to hear about. The least I can do is talk about it.”

Sam nodded and settled back against Dean’s chest again. The brothers breathed together, and Dean tried to focus on the moment. Tried to be grateful for where he was, in a bed, with Sam, as safe in Castiel’s estate as he could ever remember being. He tried to focus on that and not the idea of spilling his old Master’s safely guarded secrets to a room full of Garrison soldiers. Soldiers who, if they thought Dean was just a worthless slave at first, could only get less friendly once they heard the list of things he’d done. All he could do was thank God or whoever else was listening that Sam’s hands were still untainted with other men’s blood.

“Master Castiel, huh?” Sam said after a while.

“Hmm?” Dean asked, pressing a kiss to Sam’s temple.

“It’s just new, is all. You called him Master _Castiel_.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, cheeks heating up all of a sudden. “You know, just trying to do what he wants with that whole ‘more than your Master’ thing.”

“If it means you’re less frightened of him, then I’m happy,” Sam said.

“Careful, Sammy. It almost sounds like you might be starting to trust the guy,” Dean teased.

“I don’t,” Sam said, voice flat. “But so far nothing terrible has happened, so if you can feel a little less miserable than before, I’m not going to complain. And, uh, Dean—”

Dean waited for him to continue. For a moment, he thought maybe Sam just wouldn’t. That he’d decided against sharing whatever else he was going to say. But then Sam took a deep breath and finished talking, all in a rush.

“I know how much you love me. Really, I do.”

Dean flinched. It was true, he loved Sam with his whole being, but that didn’t make it okay for Sam to go around _talking_ about it.

“But,” Sam continued. “I just—sometimes you get that, that _look_ in your eye when I see you watching Cas. And I just want you to know—I understand. I don’t trust him, but I do trust you. And I know you. I know how you get attached to people. And I just want you to be happy. Because you deserve to be happy too, Dean. I just—I thought you should know that.”

Dean swallowed, staring at his incredibly beautiful, compassionate brother. He didn’t know exactly what Sam was getting at (although he suspected he knew _exactly_ what Sam was getting at), but he was just overwhelmed for a moment. That Sam trusted him that much. That Sam loved him that much. That Sam wanted him to be happy, because yeah, Dean couldn’t remember anyone else ever worrying about that before.

Except maybe Castiel. Which, yeah, he guessed, maybe proved that Sam had a point after all.

Dean bent down to trap his brother’s lips with his own, crushing against his mouth with a hard, dirty kiss. When he pulled away, Sam was looking up at him, so vulnerable.

“You,” he said. “You’re—you’re everything. Always.”

Dean took a deep breath, tried again.

“There isn’t anything from our past or present that I would put in front of you. Ever.”

He wished he could say it better. Wished he had words that could maybe explain all the need and the love that he felt for Sam. But that would have to do. And he’d just have to trust Sam to get it from there.

Sam reached up and lay his palm against the side of Dean’s face.

“I know,” he said. “Dean—I know.”

Dean believed him. And then he crawled down the mattress to kiss Sam, wanting to get lost in him all over again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: In this chapter, Alistair rapes Dean when he's twelve years old. The sex itself isn't too graphic, but there is a lot of derogatory language used, and a description of fingering Dean open with his own blood.


	13. Officially Summonsed

**2 BC**

Sam studied the figures in front of him. Columns of numbers running down the page, spilling onto the next and the one after it. He tried to shove away what each figure meant. The weapons, the drugs, the people those clusters of numbers represented. If he thought about it too hard, he got sloppy. Useless. And then Master would be disappointed and Sam would have that sick feeling he got in his stomach when he knew he hadn’t been good enough.

If Master was really upset, he’d tell Alistair, who would take it out of Dean’s hide later, and make Sam watch. And after Dean was a bloody and beaten mess, Master would stand behind Sam, stroke his hair and tell him this was all for his own good. How else could he learn?

And as much as Sam hated the curling shame of knowing he’d failed his Master, he couldn’t, _couldn_ _’t_ keep being responsible for Dean’s pain. Especially since Alistair had been using him out in the field so much lately, he hadn’t been hurting Dean nearly as often. Dean still lay in their bed at night with that same haunted look in his eyes, like he wasn’t quite there with Sam, that he used to get, back when Alistair first started fucking him in earnest. He refused to talk about what Alistair made him do, what he did _for_ Alistair on those late nights out. Sam wasn’t an idiot; he knew it was nothing good. All the same, he still thought it was an improvement. At least he no longer had to watch Dean accumulate new scar patterns all over his body. Didn’t have to wake up with blood on his skin from where Dean’s stitches had split open in the night.

So Sam had to focus. He’d finally gotten his head cleared out and had worked his way through the first page of figures when Master came into the room.

“How’s it looking, Sammy?” he asked, striding over to rest his hand on the back of Sam’s neck, thumb rubbing over his spine.

“Good, Master,” Sam said. “If this keeps up, profits will increase by a good thirty percent from last year.”

“Thirty percent, huh?” Azazel said, leaning down to take a look at the pages in front of Sam. “You’ve become such an asset, Sam. Really an integral part to keeping the operation running.”

Sam fought back a surge of nausea at the words. He told himself it wasn’t true, not really. He just added things together, helped moved some money around. All the same, he couldn’t stop that creeping feeling of wrongness that grew a little stronger every time his Master told him how much he was helping out “the business.” So he fought to shove that to the back of his mind too, looked up at Azazel, and said, “Thank, you, Master. Always happy to serve.”

“I know you are,” Azazel said, moving his hand to Sam’s cheek now. “You really are such a good boy.”

**AD**

Castiel read the letter in his hands through for the fifth time. The words hadn’t changed. And thanks to Gabriel, the message wasn’t even a surprise. Raphael, one of the highest ranking officers at the Garrison, had issued a summons that Sam and Dean report to Naomi for questioning related to the case against Azazel and Alistair before the end of the week.

No, more to the point, the document ordered Castiel to bring his _property_ in before Naomi for questioning. Sam and Dean weren’t even considered people acting under their own free will in this situation.

Which still bothered Castiel. He’d never heard of a slave’s testimony being given any weight in Garrison hearings before. There was something about this situation Castiel didn’t know, wasn’t seeing yet. And he didn’t like it. Ordinarily, he’d follow his orders without question. There had never been a reason to do otherwise before. But now, when he thought about Dean and even Sam, and them getting caught up in some Garrison scheme, the very idea of the ways they could be hurt turned his stomach. He was—anxious, there was no other word for it—about this whole affair.

All the same, not liking the summons didn’t mean he could ignore it. And Sam and Dean had a right to know.

He left the study and followed the halls to the kitchen. The Harvelles were restocking his shelves today, so he knew the brothers would be there, helping them.

When the door was in sight, he heard the murmur of Jo’s voice, followed by a low rumble of laughter. Sam or Dean. At least one of them had to be laughing. Cas didn’t think he’d ever heard the sound before, and for one heartbeat, was furious at Jo for being the one to tease a laugh out of them, instead of himself. It was selfish, and Cas knew it. If the brothers could find any happiness after what they’d been through, Castiel had no right to begrudge it. All the same, he was going to break up the moment as soon as he stepped into the room.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Sam stood near the door, unpacking a crate on one of the counters overflowing with groceries, their meals for the week. Ellen stood nearby, pointing out where something belonged if Sam hesitated over an item. Jo leaned against the stove, arms crossed in front of her chest and a mischievous smile on her face. But Dean—Dean sat on a counter, legs swinging, an easy grin on his face. Cas froze inside the kitchen, waiting for the expression to shatter. Instead, Dean turned towards him and kept smiling.

“Hello, Castiel,” he said.

The background noise of Sam unpacking, Ellen’s directing, and Jo’s constant chatter all died. Cas looked up to see everyone watching him, waiting for his reaction to Dean’s casual greeting.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, acting as if everything were normal. As if his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest at the sound of Dean calling him by his name, in front of people. The sight of Dean not cowering before him in fear.

 _If this is what getting drunk around Dean gets me, I should do shots every night_ , he thought.

“Hello, Sam. Ellen, Jo.”

“Hey, Cas,” Jo said, overshadowing Sam’s whispered, “Sir.”

“I, uh, I wonder if I might speak to Sam and Dean for a moment, please. Alone,” Cas said.

“Well, we still have a job to do in this kitchen,” Ellen said. “As far as I know, you have the whole rest of the house to go speak alone in.”

Cas nodded, Sam and Dean already crossing the kitchen at Ellen’s words before he had the chance to back out of the room.

Cas led the way to the library. It felt the most like common ground, with how often Sam in particular spent his free time there. The brothers stood in front of him, no one moving to sit down or get comfortable. Dean was fidgeting slightly, and Sam had that too calm expression he wore when Castiel suspected he was really at his most agitated. Clearly Cas’ nerves were contagious.

“I received a letter from the Garrison today,” Castiel said. “It’s—it’s the official summons. You’re both to be questioned individually by the Garrison’s top inquisitor.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change, and all Dean seemed to do was deflate a little.

“When?” Sam asked after a beat.

“Sometime within the next three days,” Cas told him.

“Then tomorrow,” Sam said. “We do it tomorrow.”

Cas blinked at him. He really did seem confident about it. Maybe he really had no idea how rattling it would be to answer Naomi’s questions. To spill his Master’s secrets to such a cold, detached soldier. Or maybe, what Cas thought was more likely, he simply wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

SPN

As soon as they were alone in their bedroom, Sam pounced on Dean, flattening him against the wall, devouring his mouth. Dean went limp in his grasp, letting Sam position him, pin his arms up over his head, tilt his head back. Sam kept kissing Dean, tongue mapping out the familiar ridges on the roof of his mouth, until the anxiety gnawing away at his stomach died down enough that he could think. Then he released his hold on Dean’s wrists and stepped back just far enough to let Dean slump down a little.

“You doin’ okay, Sammy?” Dean asked, looking at him with those smotheringly concerned eyes of his.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam insisted, moving back into the room. “Just—feeling a little keyed up about tomorrow. I wanted to blow off a little steam.”

Dean opened his mouth, probably to find a way to stop Sam from having to testify again, but Sam cut him off with a glare.

“We’ve been over this before. I’m doing it. If you’re going to answer the Garrison’s questions, I’m going to too.”

“All right,” Dean said, moving over to the bed and sitting down at its foot. “I won’t keep fighting you on that. But, Sam, we haven’t, uh, we haven’t talked about _how_ we’re going to answer their questions.”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Sam,” Dean said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You gonna make me spell it out for ya? Sure, tattling on Alistair and Azazel is one thing, but _how_ are we gonna paint some of the information?”

“I just assumed honestly,” Sam said, still standing halfway across the room, watching Dean.

Dean let out a harsh laugh.

“Sure, right. Just lay out the past ten years in _honest_ detail. Sounds like a great plan to me, Sammy. If you want to be put down like a dog.”

“Well,” Sam said, taking a couple measured steps closer to his brother now. “I doubt they’ll want every detail. But Dean, Castiel said we were reporting to their _top_ inquisitor. She’s going to be good enough to know if she’s being lied to. And I hate to break it to you, Dean, but you’re just _bad_ at lying in general. You start hedging or trying to hide something from her, and she’s just going to push even harder.”

“Of course,” Dean said, running a hand over his face. “Great.”

“Why?” Sam asked.

Dean’s eyes snapped up to him, too wide, too stunned. Yes, there was definitely something he didn’t want to talk about.

“Why what, Sammy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Dean. What is it you don’t want the Garrison to know?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe that I’ve been Alistair’s attack dog for the last five fucking years of my life. I’ve done some bad shit, Sam. The kind they don’t have a problem executing _people_ for, let alone slaves.”

Sam sighed and sat on the bed beside Dean. Dean’s hands were twitching in his lap, and as much as Sam wanted to reach for one of them at the moment, he knew that would be the wrong move. Would set Dean off. So he tried to be soothing with his tone, even if he couldn’t be with his words.

“No one can blame you for what you did, Dean. Like you said, we’re slaves. We weren’t exactly allowed to make our own decisions. As far as the Garrison is concerned, we were just tools in Azazel and Alistair’s arsenal. And you don’t blame the tool for what the person wielding it has done.”

Dean laughed again, shaking his head.

Sam looked away, giving him a minute to himself. It wasn’t like he loved what he was saying either. But it _was_ the truth, and if just this once being a slave could come through and protect his brother, well, he figured the universe owed them at least that much.

“Is there any _specific_ thing you don’t want the Garrison to know?” Sam asked after a while.

“No,” Dean said. Then paused. “I don’t want to talk about Dad.”

Sam whipped his head around, staring. Dean hadn’t so much as mentioned Dad in years. Not since—whatever happened. Whatever he knew about. Whatever he’d never even told Sam.

Slowly, Dean raised his eyes to Sam’s. And in that moment, he just looked so hurt, Sam wanted to burn the whole world down for doing that to him. His strong, brave, beautiful brother, fucking _shattered_.

“So don’t,” Sam said, steel in his voice. “That’s none of their business anyway. Don’t talk about it.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding. “You’re right.”

They were quiet again, just sitting next to each other for a while longer. Then Dean asked, “What about you, Sammy?”

“Hmm?”

“Isn’t there anything you’d rather keep to yourself?”

Sam’s lips curved into what wasn’t actually a smile.

“No,” he said. “Only everything.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “That seems about right.”

Then slowly, cautiously, he edged closer to Sam, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam finally grabbed one of Dean’s hands, breathed in the smell of his hair, tickling his nose, and tried his hardest not to think about tomorrow.

 


	14. Hostile Interviews

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I promise I won't forget about this fic. Sorry for the long delay. RL has kept me down, but I'm still here and wanting to write! 
> 
> We're starting to get plotier here, slowly but surely.

**5 BC**

Dean’s hands were tied behind his back, at the wrist and elbows. A lattice tie kept his legs tight together as he knelt on the floor, knees tingling from resting so long on the cement. A rough rope knot gag was wedged between his teeth keeping him quiet, even though he wasn’t the one making any sounds.

No, that honor belonged to the poor schmuck bound to Alistair’s table in Dean’s usual spot. He was howling up a storm, in a way Dean had long ago learned didn’t do any good. As Dean understood it, the guy had worked for Azazel and Alistair, right up until he stole ten grand from their operation. The moron had tried to cut and run, but it only took three days for Alistair (with Dean’s help. As Alistair had enjoyed pointing out, he was becoming quite the bloodhound) to track him down.

When Alistair had dragged the bastard beaten and bloody but still conscious into the basement, Dean had been the one on the table. Alistair had told his goons to chuck the thief in the corner, and then Alistair had locked eyes with Dean.

“Here’s how this is going to go, Deano,” he said. “Today, I want you to do the honors of putting the fear of—hmmm, _me_ into my former employee. You see, he’s getting cut up. There’s no way around it. Either you cut him or I do. But the good news for you—if you do the cutting, you _don_ _’t_ get cut today. Doesn’t that sound like a good deal? Whaddya say, boy? You want me to let you off the table and get to cutting?”

Dean had bit his lip and shaken his head. There was no way he was going to carve up another human being. He _wasn_ _’t_ going to become Alistair.

“No?” Alistair had said. “You’re not ready? Tell you what, I’ll warm up on you, give you a chance to change your mind. But I warn you, Dean, if by the end of my warm up, you’re still not game, I’ll make you watch everything I do to this poor son of a bitch. And then I’m going to do it all to you.”

Dean had held up the whole time Alistair was cutting on him. It was terrible, but not as bad as usual. Dean wondered why. If it meant Alistair didn’t want him to lose consciousness, or if he’d been hoping Dean wouldn’t break today. If what he really wanted was to make everyone bleed.

In either case, Dean had held out until, light-headed from the pain, he’d traded places with the thief. His own wounds still weeping, he watched every stroke of Alistair’s blade on this man’s flesh. He memorized the patterns of the scars the man would have, if there was any chance Alistair would let the poor SOB live long enough for the cuts to close up. Dean watched every line, every slice, knowing that when Alistair was done, he would carve Dean’s flesh in the same fashion. Dean was watching his future play out on this man’s skin.

He tried to tell himself he’d made the right choice. That he was doing the right thing. Even if this man was being tortured, even if Dean had to see it, he wasn’t _doing_ it, wasn’t _causing_ it, and that was good. He’d made the right call. But when the bastard shit himself on the table and started sobbing for mercy, Dean wasn’t so sure.

**AD**

Dean sat in a cool metal chair in the waiting room of Castiel’s Garrison Headquarters. Sam sat on one side of him, still as a statue and outwardly as calm—to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Dean did. But Dean knew Sam was a little too stoic. It was how he kept himself together when he was most worried about falling apart. Dean wished his own coping methods were that badass. As it was, he couldn’t stop his left leg from jiggling with nerves, even though he knew what Alistair would’ve done to him if he kept being so annoying.

Castiel sat on Dean’s other side at the moment, though he had stood up and questioned the woman behind the metal grate three times about when someone was going to come to “take their statements” as he called it. Dean tried to believe the guy when he promised no one at the Garrison would be harming them, but it was hard to believe given his personal experience with interrogations.

In defense of Castiel’s agitation, it _did_ feel like they’d been waiting there forever. Castiel grew increasingly upset, kept muttering about how desperate the Garrison had been for Sam’s and Dean’s testimony, only to ignore them now. Dean didn’t say anything, but he was surprised by Castiel’s reaction. Dean would have figured working for these guys, he would already know it was only a tactic. A way to throw the victims off their game, make them sweat, before the real fun began.

Alistair had employed the tactic a few times. Dean had both watched and been the recipient. But in the end, Alistair always preferred slicing and dicing to the sort of patience that particular mind-game required.

Finally, after at least an hour and a half of waiting, a duo of Garrison agents game through the door. One was tall and stood quiet and aware, like a soldier. Like Castiel stood sometimes. The other, though, was older and reminded Dean of the men who would come by Azazel and Alistair’s mansion sometimes. Powerful, oily, and dangerous.

Castiel stood at their arrival, mirroring the soldier’s posture, and putting himself between Sam and Dean and the Garrison men.

"Where's Naomi?" Castiel asked, glancing between the two men. "It was my understanding that she would be conducting the interviews."

"Naomi is busy. But don't worry. She'll be kept in the loop if necessary. Now, Castiel, how kind of you to bring your new slaves in for the day. We can take them back with us. You don’t have to wait around here until we’re finished. You can go get caught up on paperwork or check in with Uriel. Hell, carry on your vacation for all I care. But we can take your boys from here,” the oily man said.

“Zachariah,” Castiel said with a small nod. “I would prefer to wait. Surely you’re not going to question them both at once?”

“Well, no,” Zachariah admitted. “But we do have an empty holding cell in the meantime. Really, Castiel, they’ll hardly be damaged from one day in our custody.”

“No, thank you,” Castiel said, his voice firm. “I will wait here with whichever of the two you’re not interviewing at the time. And then we’ll all leave together when you’re finished.”

Zachariah shrugged as though he couldn’t fathom why Castiel would inconvenience himself so much for a couple slaves. While Dean privately agreed with the guy, it didn’t stop his skin from crawling at the smug, superior expression on his face.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Do you have a preference for which boy Gadreel and I take back first?”

“I’ll go first,” Dean said, speaking up without consciously deciding to.

He swallowed at the instant change in Zachariah’s demeanor. He lost all his smug douchbaggery, and suddenly looked capable of causing a thunder storm with his mind. Dean glanced over at Sam, hoping he hadn’t fucked up and convinced the asshole to take his brother back first. No way was he letting Sam go anywhere alone with this guy without knowing what he’d be getting into first. If it came down to a fight, Dean wasn’t sure he liked his odds in a building full of Garrison soldiers, but maybe Cas would take a hint and get Sam the hell out of there. Dean hoped.

“You will speak only when spoken to, boy,” Zachariah spat.

Dean looked meekly at the guy’s shiny shoes, hoping a show of penance would get him his way.

“If you’re about to question him, I would imagine you’d want him to speak freely,” Castiel said, an edge of anger in his own voice that did have Dean flinching, despite his promise about being afraid of his new Master.

“All the more reason for him to save it for the interrogation room,” Zachariah said, some storminess still lingering in his tone, though it was much lighter when speaking to a fellow Garrison officer.

“Very well,” Castiel agreed, turning back to look at Dean. “Dean, please go with Zachariah and Gadreel. I will be asking you how the interview goes afterwards.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean said.

Of course Castiel wouldn’t trust him to behave. Dean hadn’t given him much reason to, but he was still enough of a pussy that it stung a bit that Castiel was going to check up on him. Ah well, he thought. He’d just have to prove he could be good.

Dean stood, wishing he could’ve gotten away with shooting Sammy a smile or giving him a hug or something and followed the two strangers down a hallway bustling with other Garrison workers. Dean assumed these were more agents, like Zachariah, not soldiers like Castiel and (Dean was guessing) Gadreel. Zachariah led him into a small room with a wide oak table and three chairs. He led Dean to the far side of the table, and Dean obediently sat without even needing to be told.

He eyed a pair of manacles chained to a bolt in the center of the table, and he put his hands flat on the table’s surface, prepared to be restrained. Zachariah eyed him for a moment before stepping forward to lock him in. Dean didn’t even flinch as the cool metal encircled his wrists.

“Zachariah,” the other man, Gadreel, said. “I don’t think those will be necessary.”

Zachariah scoffed.

“This bitch used to belong to Azazel and Alistair. You want to bet that it isn’t rabid? That it won’t get riled up if we ask it questions about its old Masters?"

“I’m sure Castiel would have warned us if the boy were dangerous. He’s given no indication of being anything but cooperative,” Gadreel said.

“So far!” Zachariah crowed.

Dean inhaled slowly. He hated being talked about like he wasn’t in the room. Insulted, put down, sure. That was any old Tuesday. But something about being talked around like he was a piece of furniture had always made him feel particularly worthless.

“Dean, is that what Castiel called you?” Gadreel asked, finally speaking to him.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said.

Gadreel nodded.

“Do you know why you’re here today, Dean?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. “To answer questions about—about my former Master. To help the Garrison build their case against them when he goes to trial.”

“That’s right,” Zachariah said, jumping in. “And here’s how it’s going to go. You do not speak off topic. You answer only questions we pose to you. You answer our questions honestly and completely. You hold anything back and I find out, I have you put down for obstructing justice. You lie to me and I find out, I have you put down for obstructing justice.

“If you _hesitate_ too long giving an answer, I’ll assume you’re revising your response in some way, and I will beat you until I’m satisfied we’ve gotten the whole truth. If you are rude or forget your place at any point, I will beat you. And—”

Zachariah paused, bringing out a long, triangular, silver blade and waving it in Dean’s face.

“If you try _anything_ —anything at all—any funny business or escape attempts, I will put you down myself and reimburse your Master for the paltry price of your sorry ass. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, pressing his palms against the flat of the table to center himself.

He could handle whatever this guy could dish out. He could be good. He could prove his worth to Castiel.

“Excellent,” Zachariah said, smug and self-satisfied again.

Gadreel shot him a look Dean couldn’t interpret. He decided not to worry about it and bowed his head.

“As far as your knowledge extends, did your former Masters have any illegal dealings or perform illegal acts in your presence?” Zachariah asked after sitting down at last, pulling out a small recording device, and switching it on.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said.

Zachariah sighed, and Dean winced.

“I’ll let that slide as you being thick and not intentionally impertinent,” Zachariah said.

Shit, Dean was already fucking up. He’d only been trying to follow Zachariah’s rule about only answering questions he’d been asked, but already he was justifying Castiel’s doubt in him. Thank God Sammy was so much smarter than Dean was. He’d be fine when it was his turn. Although, Dean wished someone less awful than Zachariah would take point on questioning him.

“ _Describe_ the illegal dealings or acts you either heard about or witnessed,” Zachariah said after a beat. “Be as specific as possible and include dates whenever able.

Dean licked his lips, sorting out his thoughts. Where the fuck was he supposed to begin?

Before he could decide, Zachariah was on his feet, towering over Dean. He cuffed him in the ear, not hard enough to do any serious damage, but hard enough to hit like a bitch. Dean yelped, startled by the blow, and then he blushed. He was really getting soft.

Gadreel stiffened in his seat, and Dean felt even more ashamed somehow.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I just—what do you want to know about first?”

“First?” Zachariah asked, a hungry gleam in his eye. “How many offenses do you know about, boy? Ten? A dozen?”

Dean shook his head.

“No, sir. Hundreds.”

Zachariah’s smile widened. He lowered himself back into his seat, folding his hands on the table before him.

“Well, then— _Dean_ —why don’t you begin at the beginning, and tell us everything you can remember?”

Dean took a shaky breath, thinking back to the days when Alistair first brought him into the loop of what he referred to as “the family business.” He felt vaguely bad for Sammy and Castiel out in the waiting area. They were going to be there a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](https://wincestielfttfwin.tumblr.com/) these days! Come by and say hello!


	15. A Change in the Status Quo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live!!! More to the point, I haven't forgotten about this fic! Plot things are going to start picking up now (hypothetically).

Castiel walked another lap of the Garrison waiting room. Two hours. Dean had been in the interrogation room with Zachariah and Gadreel for almost two hours. For the first half hour, Cas had been calm. When thirty minutes gave way to sixty, however, he grew agitated.

He’d asked Rachel at the front desk if the interrogation were still underway, or if it had finished and Dean had been forgotten, left alone in the room to stew. At first, Rachel had put him off, but when Castiel insisted she check, she grudgingly went back to the interrogation rooms to look in. When she returned, she assured Castiel that Zachariah and Gadreel were still with Dean, and that Dean himself seemed to be fine.

Castiel had checked in with Rachel three times since then. Her patience had rapidly worn thin, until she finally told Cas that if he kept harassing her, she’d have him removed from the waiting room, whether he outranked her or not. Since then, Castiel had had no option but to grow increasingly anxious with the passing of time and try to keep his pacing to a minimum so Rachel didn’t follow through on her threat to ban him from the room.

Castiel returned to his chair, hands balled into fists that practically trembled with the desire to collide with something or perhaps someone.

Beside him, Sam shifted slightly in his seat, the only indication he’d given for the past forty minutes that he was a flesh and blood person and not a statue.

Castiel took a deep breath to try and force himself to relax. He never knew what was going on in Sam’s head (unlike Dean, who couldn’t seem to help telegraphing everything he was thinking and feeling, even if he tried to do otherwise). All the same, Castiel doubted watching him steep in his own frustration was doing much to help Sam feel more secure about this situation.

“I’m sure it won’t go on much longer,” Castiel said, turning to Sam.

Sam simply nodded, dipped his head once, placidly, demurely.

“I wish I knew how you managed to be so calm about all this,” Cas muttered.

“Sir?” Sam said, raising an eyebrow.

Cas smiled wryly.

“You just seem to have more patience than I do,” he explained.

Sam looked away, his fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his pants for a moment before stilling and resting on his lap again.

“Thank you, sir,” he said after a moment.

Castiel fought a surge of annoyance at Sam’s demeanor. He’d seen that moment of weakness, seen Sam’s discomfort. But then, like pulling a curtain into place, Sam had reverted to utter stoicism. It was maddening. They were stuck in the room together, waiting for Dean to be released and Sam to take his place, but they weren’t together at all. Sam was in some whole other place, a realm that Cas could never reach. And it was really getting on his already severely frayed nerves.

“You know,” Cas said, swallowing back whatever angry words he wanted to release and forcing himself to sound non-threatening instead. “Dean and I have recently come to an understanding. He’s trying to trust me more. Did he tell you that?”

Sam looked up, locked eyes with Castiel. Something fierce burned in his stare, something that Castiel had noticed in him a few times before. It made his blood go cold, and he fought the instinct to reach for the blade he always wore at his side. It was a look that promised danger. And Castiel suspected these moments were the truest glimpses into Sam’s soul he’d yet received.

“Dean tells me everything,” Sam said, his voice even.

Cas nodded, not breaking eye contact.

“That’s good,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve both had each other. To be honest with. I’ve become very fond of Dean, Sam.”

For a moment the burning in Sam’s eyes intensified, threatening to spark out, ignite something new. But then he blinked, and it died back to a controlled blaze.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ve noticed.”

“It’s easy to be fond of Dean. He’s a very giving person. But I’d like to be fond of you too, if you’d let me. If you’d let me see who you are, just a little. If you’d trust me—just that much.”

“I don’t need you to be fond of me. Sir,” Sam said, tearing his gaze away and fixing it on the wall across the room.

“No,” Cas said with a sigh. “I suppose not.”

The two sat in silence for another fifteen minutes, until the interior door opened and Gadreel stepped through it, Dean trailing behind him with his head bowed.

“Dean,” Castiel said, rising to his feet without giving the action conscious thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam’s head snap over toward Dean just as sharply.

But Dean didn’t look up at either of them.

“Dean here was very helpful,” Gadreel said, resting a hand on the small of Dean’s back.

Dean tensed every muscle in his body until Gadreel gave him a small pat and drew his hand away.

“He cooperated with us to the fullest extent, and I commend him for it,” Gadreel continued.

Castiel nodded.

“I never had any doubt he would do otherwise.”

Gadreel gave him a weak smile before turning to Sam.

“Sam, we’re ready for you now. If you’ll just follow me.”

Woodenly, Sam came to his feet. He walked over to Gadreel, but slowed when he neared Dean, like a comet drawn into his brother’s orbit. Dean looked up long enough to give Sam a flash of a smile that didn’t touch his haunted eyes. Sam brushed shoulders with him as he walked by, his fingers reaching out to touch Dean’s wrist as he moved along. Once he broke free of Dean’s pull, his shoulders squared back, and he followed Gadreel out of the waiting room without any hesitation, leaving Castiel alone with Dean.

“Dean,” he said, gripping Dean’s shoulder despite all the signals Dean was giving off that he didn’t want to be touched, wanted to shrink in on himself and disappear.

He flinched at Castiel’s touch, but being Dean, he didn’t protest it.

“Dean, please speak to me. Are you all right? They didn’t harm you, did they?”

Dean shook his head, but he wouldn’t raise his eyes from the marble floor.

“Dean, please—look at me,” Castiel said, resisting the urge to cup Dean’s chin and angle his face upward himself.

Dean obeyed, looking up at Castiel with green eyes that seemed slightly out of focus.

“Listen to me,” Cas said, drawing Dean’s attention to his face. “It’s over now. It’s done. You did it, and you did a good job. Gadreel seemed impressed by whatever you told them. Now what do you need?”

“I—” Dean started, voice hoarse. “I need—Sam.”

Castiel’s heart broke at the admission.

“Sam still has to testify,” he said. “But as soon as he’s finished, I’ll bring you both home. And you can take the rest of the day to do whatever you need together, all right?”

Dean nodded, but from the look in his eye, Castiel wasn’t convinced Dean had actually heard him.

“Now, come on, let’s go sit down,” Cas continued, taking Dean’s hand and leading him back toward the chairs.

He looked like he was about to topple over any second, like the only thing keeping him upright was that he lacked permission to pass out.

Castiel lowered himself into one of the uncomfortable chairs, gesturing for Dean to do the same. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, though he still was, when Dean folded to his knees on the hard floor instead.

“Oh, Dean—” Cas started, but he didn’t finish the thought.

He watched as Dean swayed a little in place. Like a sapling in a strong breeze.

“Here, Dean,” Cas said, reaching out to pull Dean against his legs, to give the other man something to lean against.

Dean moved without offering any resistance, his warm body pressed against the side of Castiel’s shin. After a moment, Cas reached out and rested a hand at the nape of Dean’s neck, rubbing the tense muscles there, needed to reassure himself as well as Dean that it was okay. They were halfway out of the woods.

Dean slumped down a little forward, resting his head in Castiel’s lap, eyes still open but staring out beyond the confines of the room.

Cas moved his other hand to Dean’s hair, scraping blunt fingernails against Dean’s scalp. Dean shuddered a little and then relaxed into the touch. Cas couldn’t take his eyes off Dean’s face as the terror ebbed away from his expression little by little.

Perhaps half an hour later, the clack of high heels on marble made Castiel look up from the head still in his lap.

Naomi strode across the room, her hair swept back perfectly onto the top of her head, her pantsuit perfectly pressed.

“Castiel,” she called when she was nearly upon him.

Dean tried to bury his face in Castiel’s thigh, but otherwise he didn’t respond to her presence.

Instead of rising as Garrison protocol demanded of him, Castiel remained seated, remained petting Dean, but he nodded at Naomi respectfully.

“Naomi,” he said. “I’d been told to expect you were going to handle debriefing Sam and Dean. I was—surprised to see Zachariah and Gadreel instead.”

“I’m a very busy woman, Castiel,” she said. “I don’t have the time to participate in interrogations that might prove useless. Instead, Zachariah passed along the transcripts of his interrogation of your first slave, as I asked him to do should anything _interesting_ come up.”

Naomi paused, eying Castiel shrewdly.

“And?” he prompted when it became clear she wasn’t about to continue of her own volition.

Slowly, a smile spread over her reddened lips.

“And your boy provided us with several interesting pieces of information,” she said, not even glancing at Dean as she spoke about him. “It’s for this reason I came to speak with you personally. Castiel, would you walk back to my office with me?”

“I won’t leave Dean here alone,” Cas said. “Not after the day he’s had.”

“Nonsense,” Naomi said, waving the objection aside like a pesky mosquito. “He’ll be perfectly safe here under Rachel’s watchful eye. Unless—if you’re concerned he might try something foolish, I could have a leash brought out to tie him to—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel interrupted, voice booming in the mostly empty waiting room.

Naomi smiled demurely.

“You would know best, of course.”

Castiel sighed. He looked down at Dean, whose eyes were closed, but who hadn’t even reacted to the idea of being tied in the waiting room like a dog awaiting its master’s return. Castiel hated to leave him alone when he was like this—so hollow and empty, not at all like the warm, vibrant person Cas knew Dean to truly be. But Naomi was Castiel’s superior. He couldn’t refuse to go with her, and when all was said and done, was it kinder to take Dean with him to listen to whatever potentially traumatic thing she wanted to say, or would he be better off on his own?

“Dean,” Castiel said, stroking his cheek to get his attention.

Dean opened his eyes again, but didn’t speak.

“I want you to wait here for Sam and myself,” Cas said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can manage it, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean whispered.

“I’d rather leave you sitting in a chair than kneeling here on your own, though. Can you manage that for me, Dean?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said.

Despite his willingness, Castiel still basically had to haul him to uncooperative feet and deposit him in one of the chairs.

“I’ll be back, Dean,” Cas repeated, hovering over Dean, who’d promptly sunk into the seat with his gaze trained on the ground again.

“Yes, sir.”

Cas bit the inside of his cheek to keep from sighing again, then turned back to Naomi, who led the way out of the waiting room, to the third floor, and to her office. Once inside, she took a seat behind her intentionally intimidatingly large desk, leaving Castiel to sit opposite her.

“I’ll cut right to the chase, Castiel,” she said. “How much do you know about your slaves’ involvement in Azazel and Alistair’s criminal activity?”

“Not much,” Castiel said. “I’ve never asked them to speak about it.”

Naomi nodded.

“Well, I’m afraid they were involved. Very. The oldest boy—Dean, was it?—especially, at least based off his own testimony.”

“A—afraid?” Cas clarified, a creeping, icy feeling skittering up his spine.

“Yes,” Naomi said. “You see, it means they—or Dean, at the very least—have a great deal of information on Azazel and Alistair’s criminal empire. Enough to easily lock them away for the rest of their miserable lives.”

“I see,” Castiel said. “And why does this make you afraid?”

“Why, Castiel,” Naomi said, chuckling slightly. “They’re _slaves_. That means their testimony is worthless. With Abaddon defending Azazel and Alistair, we can’t rely on the testimony of slaves to put them away. They’re non-persons, Castiel. I’d sooner rely on the testimony of a trained parrot.”

“Then—what would you have me do?”

Naomi took a deep breath, then locked eyes with Castiel.

“Free them,” she said.

An invisible hand clutched Castiel’s heart. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

“Free them?” he repeated.

Naomi nodded, calmly, as if what she was asking of him didn’t make him seize up in fear.

“You can remain responsible for them, if you wish. Can still offer them food and shelter. As key witnesses in the trial, they wouldn’t be permitted to leave the area anyway. Nothing important would change, Castiel, at least not until the trial is over. Nothing, that is, except increasing our chances of putting two monsters away forever. Or, perhaps even getting the death penalty for them.”

“I—I don’t know,” Castiel said, running sweaty palms over his slacks. “This is a big decision, Naomi. You’re asking a great deal of me.”

“I know that, Castiel,” she said, her voice tinged with sympathy for the very first time. “It’s unorthodox for the Garrison to demand you relinquish any property obtained during a raid for us. But it isn’t unprecedented. I don’t have the authority to order you to free your slaves. But I would ask you not to be selfish.

“Is your comfort truly worth risking this trial over? This trial, after you yourself worked so hard to get a conviction for Azazel and Alistair? Besides—if you care for your these boys at all, you would have to acknowledge they would prefer to be free as well. It’s only you who benefits from their captivity, Castiel. Do try to put that into proportion.”

Castiel hung his head, letting her words settle in his mind. She was right. He’d always meant to free Sam and Dean. Someday. When they were more self-reliant. When it seemed—safer. But who knew when that would be? If he’d ever decide they were ready. If he’d just keep putting it off forever, to keep them with him. To keep his mansion feeling a little less empty.

And Naomi was right. He’d spent years of his life working to keep Azazel and Alistair from hurting any more people. If freeing Sam and Dean could help accomplish that—and ultimately do the brothers themselves a favor—wasn’t that exactly what he should do?

“Very well,” Castiel said, pressing his eyes shut for a moment, fighting the irrational surge of fear that welled up inside him at the thought of freeing Sam and Dean. At the thought of them being free to leave whenever they liked.

“I’ll do it,” he said, looking back at Naomi.

“Excellent,” she said, handing two small stacks of paper across the desk to him. “The paperwork is all drawn up. You’re making the right decision, Castiel.”

Cas nodded as he looked through the forms, identical except for the registration numbers at the top of each set of pages. But he couldn’t help wondering why, if he was making the right choice, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making the worst decision of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come say hi to me on [Tumblr](https://wincestielfttfwin.tumblr.com/)!


	16. No Good Deed (Goes Unpunished)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I'm still alive! I know I may take forever between updates, but I really do promise I have no intention of leaving this fic unfinished. 
> 
> TW for some underage Wincest at the beginning (nothing sexually explicit), so you may wanna skip the BC part if that isn't your jam

**3 BC**

Sam tried not to hover over Dean in their dungeon of a “room.” Dean had already been chained to the floor by his ankle for the night, so he knew the day was over for them both. Sam hadn’t seen Dean since that morning, when Alistair had announced he had big plans for the day. Since then, Dean had accumulated a new set of long, sliced cuts on his arms and shoulders, a split lip, and a swollen, purpling eye.

He sat on the cold floor, legs folded up against his chest, arms wrapped around his knees, in a miserable ball. He stared off in the direction of the opposite wall, but from the glazed look in his eyes, Sam knew he wasn’t actually seeing it.

“Was—was it a hard day today, Dean?” he asked, edging closer to his brother and sinking onto the cement floor beside him, pressing up close against his brother’s body.

Dean flinched a little, then relaxed, a small, tight smile on his face.

“Naw,” he said. “Not so hard. It was going all right at fist. I was doing what Alistair asked and everything. But then—well, you know me.” He paused, forcing a laugh. “I fucked up. Hesitated a bit too long following an order. Alistair wasn’t too pissed, obviously, but he had to teach me to do better, y’know?”

“Was it bad?” Sam asked, resting a hand on Dean’s knee. “What he wanted you to do?”

Dean’s smile, already fragile on his face, shattered. He looked away, eyes going glassy again.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “It was bad.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. Part of him didn’t want to know, was glad Dean kept it from him, the things he did for Alistair. Azazel always said Sam’s role in their operation was more important than his brother’s. That Sam was learning to be the brains of the operation and Dean the brute force. Sam wasn’t an idiot—he knew what that meant. Ever since Alistair broke Dean—really broke him completely a couple years ago—Dean had been hurting people for their Masters. But Dean refused to talk about it with Sam, any more than vague mentions of “doing his job.”

As much as Sam never wanted to think of his brother that way, never wanted to see the things he did under Alistair’s orders, part of him itched to know, to understand how bad it was. He told himself it had nothing to do with the images that popped into his head sometimes. Of him doing the same things to other people that Alistair did to him, and with a big smile on his face the whole time. Sam told himself his imagination had to be worse than reality. Maybe if he just _knew_ , he could stop picturing things over and over in his head. And besides, if Dean had to live through doing it, shouldn’t Sam live with the knowledge of what happened? At the very least, he had to know if Dean followed that order. If it had been bad enough to make him hesitate, it had to be truly terrible. Dean hadn’t been punished for disobeying for a long time.

“But you did it?” Sam asked, voice as soft as he could make it. “In the end? You followed the order?”

Dean took in a deep breath, wrapped his arms around himself a little tighter, but then he looked at Sam, his eyes looking so old and tired Sam felt his heart clench up in his chest.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he said. “I did it.”

Sam looked at his older brother’s face. He knew Dean. He knew that he didn’t want to hurt anybody. That he’d been hurt enough himself for seven lifetimes. That at a certain point, people just couldn’t take any more hurt. He didn’t blame Dean for what he did to keep some of the pain for falling on his own shoulders. Not really.

And Sam also knew that despite whatever Alistair made him do, Dean was still—kind. That he was still capable of love. He still looked after Sam, still protected him as much as he could, even in hiding some things from him. Dean even had some strange loyalty to Alistair, even after everything he’d been put through. He cared too much about everything. It was like he couldn’t help himself. Sam knew Dean was _good_ , but he also knew Dean would never believe that of himself. If only he could see—see how much he meant to Sam. How much Sam needed him. How much he loved him.

Spurred on by those thoughts, not second-guessing himself, acting on instinct, Sam leaned forward into Dean’s space, lips seeking out Dean’s. He and Dean had always been affectionate with each other, but in that moment, he needed _more_. He let his lips press up against Dean’s softly, a barely there brush.

“Sammy,” Dean said, his tone warning, but he didn’t do more than move his head a couple inches.

“What?” Sam demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t wanna do that, Sam,” Dean said, like it was obvious. Like Sam had no idea what it had meant, kissing his brother like that. Like he was confused.

“Why not?” Sam said, sitting up a little stiffer. “Maybe I _do_ want to kiss you, Dean. You’re—you’re an idiot sometimes, but I know what I feel. You’re everything, Dean. Every good thing.”

“Don’t,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Don’t say that, Sammy. And you definitely shouldn’t touch me. Not like that. You don’t know—you don’t know the things I’ve done. I’m not _clean_. I’m not good, like you.”

Sam laughed at that, full-on cackled. It was a hard sound, nothing happy about it.

“Like I’m so pure?” he said, anger prickling at the back of his mind now. “Dean, I’ve been drinking Azazel’s _blood_ since I was a child. I balance the damn books for him. I know where his money comes from and what it goes into. I’m not something pure. We’re both deeply fucked up and fucked here, but—but we have each other.”

His voice softened, and he let his body relax a little.

“And we love each other. If that’s all we have—can’t we, well, can’t we let ourselves have it? I mean, really have it?”

“Sam—I—” Dean started, but his protests trailed off into nothing.

“Did you not like it when I kissed you?” Sam asked.

Dean snorted.

“Sure, first time I’ve been kissed that it _didn_ _’t_ make me want to claw my own skin off, and it’s by damn little brother.”

“Okay,” Sam said, scooting further into Dean’s space. He could work with that. “Then just for tonight, Dean, would you just let me—” make you feel better, he wanted to say, but he knew that would never fly. “—have this?”

Dean’s eyelids fluttered closed, like he was shutting out the world, but this time, when Sam leaned forward, moving so slowly, giving Dean plenty of time to move away, instead of rejecting Sam, he sighed into the kiss, his hand slowly coming up to cup Sam’s cheek, and even though Sam still felt the cold, unyielding give of the concrete floor beneath them, could hear the drip of water from the ceiling in the corner, and knew that in another six to eight hours, their Masters would fetch them for another day of hell, in that moment, Sam had the strangest feeling. It was like—coming home.

**AD**

The interrogation wasn’t awful. Which wasn’t to say it was a picnic or anything. But Sam had a good memory. He talked the Garrison agents through Azazel and Alistair’s finances, describing every illegal dealing—drug running, unlawful human trafficking, and white-collar crime—he knew about from the last four years.

The one agent, the one who didn’t seem like a total prick, jotted down notes of everything he said, even though Sam was pretty sure the whole thing was being recorded. The other guy, the asshole, just fucking glowed like the cat who’d eaten the damn canary. Sure, Sam guessed all the credit for whatever information he provided would probably go to that dick, but still. The expression made him feel a little sick. 

When they’d wrapped up, the less-douchy agent gave him a small smile.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said. “You’ve been more than helpful.”

“Yes,” his partner echoed. “Well done, boy.”

They stood, the better agent leading Sam back out toward the waiting room. Sam was surprised to see Dean waiting by himself, sitting hunched over in one of the plastic chairs. He looked up at the sound of Sam’s footsteps on the floor, relief evident in his face.

“Sammy,” he mouthed, though no sound came out.

Sam spared him a small quirk of the lips. A genuine smile, even if it was small since they were in public.

“Hello again, Dean,” Gadreel said, scanning the room. “Where is Castiel?”

“H-he went with one of his superiors, sir,” Dean said, lowering his eyes.

“Oh,” Gadreel said, forehead wrinkling slightly. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be ba—”

The interior door opened before he could finish the sentence, and Castiel emerged, a woman wearing a suit and heels, her hair pulled back, and the douchy agent from the interrogation flanking him. Castiel eyed Zachariah suspiciously as they approached.

“Naomi,” Gadreel said, nodding at the woman.

Her eyes swept over Sam and Dean. Sam felt himself freeze up under her gaze. She had that look Azazel sometimes got—like she was sizing him up, seeing directly into his soul.

“Sam, Dean,” she said. “I have some good news for you boys. As of today, you’re free men. Castiel just signed all the necessary paperwork in my presence. It’s already official.”

Sam stood, shocked, as the words washed over him. Free? What did that even mean? The word rattled around in his head, not really settling, devoid of any meaning. Freedom was something for other people. Not a word he’d ever imagined for himself.

He felt a weird tightening feeling in his chest, something he hadn’t felt since he was a child and gotten control over his emotions—at least in front of other people. What did it mean if he was free? What would he and Dean do now? How would they make a living? How could they survive?

But then, he looked over at his brother and saw his own shock mirrored there, but something else as well. Hope. Dean looked—hopeful. And it was such a beautiful look for him, that tightness in Sam’s chest melted away, and he smiled at Dean, not bothering to hide it. They would figure something out. And they’d figure it out together. Fuck the rest of the world—they were _free_!

“Congratulations, boys,” the woman, Naomi, continued. “And welcome to society as free men. Sam, you are free to go. You’re now an essential witness in this trial, though, so you won’t be permitted to leave the area. If you attempt to do so, you will be caught, and you will be incarcerated for obstructing justice. Dean, however—”

Naomi turned towards him, and Sam’s smile slipped off his face. A terrible sinking sensation hit him, like plummeting towards the bottom of a river, weight pressing down on him from all sides. He couldn’t breathe. Something bad was about to happen. He knew it. He could see it in Naomi’s eyes. Read it in the tension of the air.

“I’m afraid Dean will be remaining here at the Garrison, in our custody.”

And just like that, Sam knew what it felt like to die.

“Naomi,” Castiel growled, taking a step toward her. “What are you saying? This wasn’t part of our agreement.”

“We didn’t have an agreement, Castiel,” Naomi countered. “And please, maintain control of yourself. Dean’s crimes committed, although a slave and under coercement, are severe enough Abaddon would destroy our entire case if we tried to use his testimony without prosecuting. Sam, though involved in his former masters’ criminal dealings, hasn’t committed the kind of atrocities Dean has. The fact is, we simply can’t build a case around Dean’s testimony and allow him to go unpunished. This is the only way to handle a difficult situation, Castiel.

“I can promise you, out of appreciation for Dean’s cooperation with this trial and given the situation in which he committed his crimes, we won’t be seeking execution. He can enact his right to a trial—after the Azazel and Alistair case is wrapped up. But right now, Dean is going to be held here. Zachariah, would you please?”

Zachariah, leering, moved toward Dean who sat, curled up as small as he could make himself in his chair, his eyes trained on Sam.

Castiel stepped in front of Zachariah.

“Don’t you touch him,” he growled before rounding on Naomi. “How dare you? I’ve given my life to serving the Garrison, and this is how you act? Tricking me? Taking an innocent man I’ve been trying to protect and locking him away from crimes he had no say in committing? Is this what the Garrison has come to?”

“This is exactly what it’s come to,” Naomi said. “If you weren’t so emotionally involved, you’d see it too. This is our only option. Four months ago, this might have been your plan, Castiel. The Garrison is going to do whatever it takes to end Azazel and Alistair’s dealings. This is a small price to pay for a stronger case.”

“Easy to say when you’re not the one paying that price!” Castiel said. “This is unacceptable. I won’t allow it. Dean, Sam, we’re leaving. Together.”

Castiel made a move toward the door, Dean twitching in his seat like he wanted to follow. Sam just stayed where he was, watching events he had no control over unfold.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Castiel,” Naomi said. “Zachariah, get the boy. Castiel, if you continue to resist, I’ll have you charged for obstruction.”

It wasn’t until Zachariah reached for him that the weight of what was happening seemed to really hit Dean. He flung himself out of his chair and in Sam’s direction.

“Sammy,” he said, fists clutching the fabric of Sam’s shirt, even while Zachariah grabbed his elbow, trying to haul him away. “Sammy, no!”

Sam couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but watch as Zachariah pulled a thrashing Dean away. Zachariah was larger and more in control of himself than a terrified Dean, who was so worked up his eyes were practically rolling up in his head.

“Please,” he begged, his resistance looking even less effective and more instinctual. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just don’t take me away from Sammy. I’ll be good, I swear. You can hurt me. You can—you can do whatever you want to me. I don’t care. Just please, don’t take me away from Sam.”

“Don’t be overdramatic,” Zachariah said, still wrestling Dean’s twisting body. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“Naomi,” Gadreel said, speaking for the first time since this scene unfolded. “I don’t think this is necessary. We didn’t discuss charging Dean, but even if you feel you must, why couldn’t he be placed into Castiel’s custody? After all, as he pointed out, he _has_ been a member of the Garrison for years now. Surely he could continue to keep watch over Dean.”

“Castiel has proven he’s not to be trusted in this situation,” Naomi said. “And we can’t be seen to show any favoritism toward Dean just because of his circumstances. Not if we want this testimony to stick. Now, Zachariah, take Dean down to the cells. Castiel, if you show me you can handle yourself, I’ll allow you visiting rights of the prisoner.”

Naomi turned on her heels and left the room. Behind her, Zachariah wrestled a still protesting Dean out of the waiting area. Over Zachariah’s shoulder, Dean stared back at Sam, terror evident in every part of his expression.

Sam watched as his whole world was led away, and all he could feel was that same weight and suffocation. He’d reached the bottom of the riverbed, and the feelings got even stronger. There was nothing but this now.

Nearby, he heard Gadreel speaking to Castiel.

“I promise you, brother,” he said. “I had no idea what Naomi was planning. But we will get Dean out. I swear it.”

“Gadreel,” Castiel said, a tremor in his voice. “I can’t—I can’t live with myself if something happens to him.”

Even though Sam heard them speaking, it all seemed like it was happening miles away. All he could do was stare at the door Dean had disappeared behind and wonder how he was supposed to live without his brother by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duhn, duhn, duuuuuhn!! A lot of you seemed to know exactly where I was going after that last chapter, so to all of you: good job! I really will try not to leave you hanging at this point in the story for too terribly long. 
> 
> Feel free to swing by and say hi to me on [Tumblr!](https://wincestielfttfwin.tumblr.com/)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I churned this chapter out pretty easily on the heels of the last one. This one does have some dark shit in it, so see the end notes for trigger warnings if you're at all concerned.

**5 BC**

Dean lay strapped to Alistair’s table, taking deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. He wasn’t the only one in the room in this position though. Just a few feet to his left, another dude was lashed down as well, only this wasn’t just another Tuesday for him. Alistair had gagged him earlier, when the guy had refused to shut up, but Dean could still hear him whimpering in fear. And he could still smell the piss staining his pants, from when the guy had woken up and realized his situation.

Dean tried not to think of the stranger as pathetic. He really did. But, well, it had been a long time since Alistair had had to gag him before a session.

All the same, even though Dean was well-practiced at being a side of beef for Alistair to cut at, a block of marble for him to sculpt away at, he was still fighting back his own terror, all because that other guy was here. The days when Dean was alone while Alistair hurt him were easier, so much easier than days like this.

This was something Alistair had been doing for months now. It wasn’t enough to put Dean on the table and slice into him anymore, like Alistair had been doing since he decided Dean could start taking real pain “like a man.” Now, Alistair was trying to get Dean to take up the knife, start hurting other people himself. And when Dean refused, his punishments were always so much worse than what Alistair normally did to him. There were moments when Dean could feel his resolve crumbling away, when it seemed like it would be so easy to just say yes and pick up a scalpel.

Alistair promised that one day he would, that Dean would obey. And the thought that it might be today was what terrified Dean most of all.

“Alright, Deano,” Alistair crooned, entering the room. He stood over Dean, a plastic apron to protect his clothes from the blood. “Standard offer before we get started today: I’ll let you up without a scratch if you wield the knife against my disappointing _former_ subordinate. If you refuse, I’m going to hurt you enough to make sure you regret it. So whadd’ya say? Want me to undo these straps and let you get to work?”

Alistair’s fingers traced the straps holding Dean down, his fingertips skimming over Dean’s skin almost tenderly.

“N-no, Sir,” Dean said, fighting the urge to close his eyes and forcing himself to meet Alistair’s gaze instead.

“No? Are you sure about that, Dean?” Alistair asked, clicking his tongue in disapproval. He pinched the inside of Dean’s thigh before he started talking again. “I tell you what, I’m feeling generous today. I’m going to do just a little bit of work on you and have a bit of a chat, and then we’ll try again. Doesn’t that sound fair?”

No, Dean thought. He’d rather Alistair just set into him already. It was all he could do to keep refusing. He didn’t want even more chances to break. Terror got the better of him and he pressed his eyes shut.

“Please, Master,” he whispered. “Please just hurt me.”

Alistair groaned, more sound than he made when he buried his dick in Dean’s ass.

“Oh, Dean, you don’t know what it _does_ to me to hear you beg for your pain. Don’t you worry, now. I’ll hurt you plenty. But we’re still going to give you another shot. And just because you’re such a good boy, I’ll make you a special deal. If you say yes today, I won’t make you torture this son of a bitch. Just one quick, clean slice of the jugular. He’ll bleed out nice and easy.”

The guy on the other table started making a huge racket again, thrashing as much as he could on the table and making muffled screams behind his gag.

“That would be a mercy compared to what I’ll do to him,” Alistair said, raising his voice to make sure the other guy heard him over his own panic. “Now, let’s get started.”

Alistair picked up a small surgical scalpel, making sure Dean saw what tool he had in his hand before holding it hovering over Dean’s ribs.

“It can be such a trial sometimes, Dean,” Alistair said, placing the scalpel to his ribs and making a shallow cut vertically, just warming up. “Deciding how to hurt you. Sometimes, I’d like nothing more than to slice you open and get elbow deep in your intestines. The sounds you’d make for me then!”

Alistair groaned again, and Dean kept his breathing even while Alistair made another slice bisecting the first one.

“But see, you’re an investment, Dean. So far, I’ve avoided doing anything too permanently damaging to you. I’d encourage you not to prove yourself worthless to me by disobeying for too long. If I start to think my investment might not be worth the restraint, I could start getting much more creative in our time together. Maybe we’ll even start today. I could always slice you open to at least get a peep at those guts of yours and then stitch you back up again. How would you like that, Dean?”

Dean didn’t respond, knew he wasn’t really supposed to. It was enough to listen to what Alistair said, to let the images he was painting solidify in Dean’s mind. Because he could picture it. Could see Alistair slicing him open, rearranging his guts, and then stitching him back up again, only to start the whole process all over again in another few days.

Maybe he’d go too far, though. Maybe he’d accidentally kill Dean, and then—and then nothing. Dean couldn’t let himself think that way. He had to stick around for Sammy. He couldn’t leave his brother alone.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” Alistair sighed, connecting the ends of the cuts on one side to make a triangle. “You see, Dean, it’s dangerous to disappoint me. Take our guest here, for instance. He was supposed to exchange a certain product of mine for a great deal of money. B my middleman, if you will. But the deal involved some unsavory people. I trusted this man to think with his brain and not his dick, but he let me down.”

Alistair bent down to whisper in Dean’s ear.

“You see, Dean, McNeil over here has a secret. He has a predilection for, shall we call them _underage_ beauties. Extremely underage.”

Dean sucked in a breath, eyes widening as he looked at Alistair who grinned, winking back at him.

He stood up then, speaking loudly again to be sure the other guy heard what he was saying.  

“As it turns out, though, McNeil’s secret was not as secret as he’d thought. The men he was supposed to be selling my product to knew about his _preferences_ and arranged a little diversion. While he was enjoying the pleasures of a seven year old’s body, they made off with my merchandise, and McNeil returned back to me empty handed.”

Alistair made a deeper cut at Dean’s waist. He tensed while the worst of the pain hit him, hands balling into fists, and then relaxed again in his bonds.

“Very disappointing,” Alistair said, though Dean knew he was still talking about McNeil and not his own moment of weakness.

“So you see what he’s doing here, don’t you Deano? Couldn’t very well let that sort of behavior go unchecked. The only question here is, how badly do you want to be punished for the sake of this pervert? Do you really think you deserve to have a nice, long session with me out of some misguided attempt to protect a child-diddler? McNeil is dying one way or the other today, Dean. So I’m asking: how much do you want to hurt?”

Dean looked over at Alistair, his vision blurry. If what Alistair said was true, that guy strapped to the table was a total sicko. He’d hurt some little kid (just like you were hurt at that age, a voice in the back of his head piped up). If anyone deserved Alistair’s special brand of punishment (nobody deserved Alistair’s special brand of punishment) it was that sick fuck.

And besides, Alistair was right. McNeil was going to end up dead one way or the other. And Alistair promised Dean didn’t have to torture him, could end him right away. Really, it would be a more humane end than the guy deserved (more humane than Dean’s fucking life).

What was Dean trying to prove here anyway? He’d already done some bad shit under Alistair’s orders. He was no innocent rose. But why should he have to have a front-row seat to his own disembowelment when Alistair was offering him a way out? Just one flick of the knife. It would be better for everyone in the long run, really.

Slowly, Dean nodded.

Alistair’s eyes fucking gleamed.

“Was that a yes, dear boy?” he asked.

“Y-yeah,” Dean said (Yes, Master). “I’ll take up the knife.”

Alistair reached down to stroke Dean’s cheek with a bloody hand.

“Good choice.” He purred. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Dean.”

**AD**

Dean’s head was reeling. He couldn’t process what was happening. One minute, he’d been worrying about Sam being stuck in a room with Zachariah, still dealing with reliving all the shit he’d done for Alistair. Then some lady told him they were _free_ , really, fucking free. But it all ended with him being dragged off to another cell.

It didn’t make sense. That wasn’t freedom. He knew. He’d lived in a cell for sixteen years. And the past few weeks, living with Castiel, that was the closest to freedom he’d ever felt. Not this. Not when Sam was still back in the marble hall and he was being dragged away to be punished.

This couldn’t he happening.

Yes, he deserved to be punished for the things he’d done. He knew that, really. And he would take it. He’d take three days strapped to Alistair’s table, a whole week even, but what he couldn’t bear (what he wouldn’t bear) was being separated from Sammy.

Zachariah manhandled him down a flight of cement steps that didn’t match the decor of the Garrison foyer at all. Dean was shoved down the stairs before him to stand before a giant, metal door. Zachariah nodded to a man in a booth to the right, and the heavy door opened inward, Dean being pushed through.

On the other side stood a man Dean thought looked vaguely familiar from the raid on Alistair and Azazel’s mansion, when Castiel had saved him and Sam.

“Uriel,” Zachariah said, drawing up short. “Sir. What are you doing on the prison block. I thought—”

“I have no interest in hearing what you thought,” Uriel said. “I’ll take the prisoner from here. I had him assigned a cell the moment Naomi informed me of the plan.”

“B-but Naomi charged me with securing the prisoner,” Zachariah countered.

Uriel shot him a look that deflated him completely.

“You’ve brought him to the cell block. He’s secure. Now I’ll take care of him from here. You’re dismissed, Zachariah.”

“Yes, sir,” Zachariah said, giving Dean a bit of a shove before turning around and leaving.

The door opened and closed behind him, and then Dean was alone with Uriel.

“I hear you were quite a busy little trained monkey for Alistair and Azazel, is that correct?” Uriel asked, turning his stare onto Dean.

“Y-yes, Sir,” Dean said, not even considering protesting the comparison.

“If you manage to make yourself useful to the Garrison, you may find a way to make up for some of your crimes. Make no mistake, Dean. Naomi may have freed you, but as long as you’re a prisoner, you belong to us.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean said again, not sure how else to respond.

Uriel hummed in thought and turned away.

“Follow,” he barked.

Dean obeyed, staying a respectful step and a half behind and to the left. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the hall was lined with more of those heavy metal doors, like the one at the end of the hall. Like that one, they were mostly solid slabs of shining metal, but unlike that one, they all had small round windows into the rooms beyond them. Dean didn’t risk raising his line of sight long enough to peer into any of them. He didn’t trust Uriel, but he knew he needed to be on his best behavior.

Near the end of the hall, Uriel stopped, hand on the handle of one of the metal doors.

“Until the Garrison has further use of you, I thought a reminder of your place would prove useful,” he said.

He opened the door, but didn’t explain his statement any more.

Deciding it didn’t really matter, Dean stepped inside the cell. Uriel closed the door behind him, and Dean heard a click that told him it had locked. He couldn’t hear anything on the other side, unsure if Uriel was still standing there or if the doors and walls were soundproofed.

Glancing around, he decided if there was any soundproofing involved, it must only be to the wall lining the hallway. The opposite wall was just standard concrete, the external wall of the building. But both the walls between the door and back of the cell were just lines of bars. The inmates would obviously have no privacy from each other.

The cell was smaller than the one Dean and Sam had shared for so many years, but it was much cleaner and dryer. It had a small cot, a toilet, and a sink, so that was a step up too. Dean approached the little cot to see a thin, gray shirt and pair of pants folded at the foot of it. Guessing they were the clothes he was meant to wear now, he unfolded the shirt, about to strip off the one Castiel had given him, when a squeak from the room cell to his right, the last one before the end of the row, caught his attention.

He froze. Whoever was inside had been so still when he’d first entered, Dean thought he was alone on this side of the block. But clearly someone was sitting on a cot in the neighboring cell.

A cold, familiar chuckle followed another squeak, and Dean felt his whole body go numb.

It couldn’t be. Yes, he deserved to be punished for his sins. The Garrison knew that, but still—why would they do this to him? Was this part of his punishment? Did he really deserve this too?

“Long time no see, Deano,” the man in the next cell said, coming over to stand at the bars separating their cells. “Just like the good old days. I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun together.”

Feeling defeated in every conceivable sense of the term, Dean lowered himself to his knees on the floor of his cell and looked up into Alistair’s grinning face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Dean is strapped to a table and (I would argue lightly) tortured, but Alistair does describe some very graphic things (including disemboweling) he'd like to do to Dean.  
> There is a discussion of pedophilia.   
> Also, while it happens "off-screen," Dean kills a guy after the flashback.  
> Additionally, Alistair shows up at the end of the chapter.


End file.
